


Whispers In The Dark: Zarry Drabbles I

by StormDancer



Series: One Direction Drabbles [3]
Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 100
Words: 84,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7543255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my Zarry drabbles, AU ideas, and other snippets, originally posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of some of the Zarry drabbles I've written on Tumblr. Some of them will be long, some short; some won't even be proper drabbles at all, just summaries of what I would write. Mostly unbetaed, so there very well could be some typos, sorry. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_**Prompt: 'Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?'** _

It’s only about fifteen minutes into the conversation with the guy seated at the table next to him that the thought occurs to Zayn, but it’s the sort of thought that he kind of can’t escape. He’s already learned that the guy—Harry—is living in London, works at Radio 1, knows the bride because her best friend’s cousin’s boyfriend once went to coffee with his sister (which apparently makes them best friends). He’d learned at first sight that Harry has sinful lips and bright eyes and strong shoulders and hair Zayn wants to pull. He’d learned about five minutes in that Harry is what’s going to make this tolerable. 

It wasn’t that Zayn hadn’t wanted to come. He hadn’t, particularly, but that was more because he hated big events like this than anything. He’d wanted to see the wedding, see two of his friends say their vows to each other. He was not, as Louis’s claimed, ‘a pretentious cynic who can afford to be too cool for love because he’s hot enough to get laid anyway’. He just…finds it easier not to date. And taking someone to a wedding is a big deal if you’re not already dating, even if Louis claims it’s pathetic not to have a date to a wedding.

Which, normally, would just be their banter. But Harry is fit, and charming, and lovely, and he’s smiling at Zayn like he’s not just interested in his face, and,

“Sorry, this is weird, but I have to check—” Zayn blurts out, when Harry pauses after a story about the bakery he worked in when he was a teenager, “But are you a prostitute?”

It’s—not at all how Zayn had meant to ask, if he even had planned to ask at all, but maybe he’d had too much champagne or maybe he’d noticed the tattoos showing through Harry’s thin shirt in the hot lights and it had driven him momentarily brain dead He’ll tell Louis this story and never have to date again, after Louis stops laughing at him.

But Harry’s not running away. He just tilts his head consideringly, like he actually has to think about the answer. Zayn’s not sure what it says about either of them that he finds it endearing. “No,” he says, slowly. “Not that there’d be anything wrond with it if I was, but no, I’m not.”

“Okay.” Shit. Now Zayn’s ruined this just because his stupid brain won’t shut off. “Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?” he suggests hopefully.

He can’t get that lucky. Harry shakes his head. “Why’d you think I was?” His lips are pressed together like he’s doing a bad job at holding back a smile. “Is it the shirt?”

“No! I mean, like, it’s just, my mate was saying I shouldn’t go alone to this, and he’d absolutely get a prostitute to pretend to be my date if he’d thought about it, and then you were, like, here and all…” Zayn trails off before he can dig himself into a deeper hole. He can probably get away with never talking again. It sounds like a generally good idea.

“So you think anyone who shows interest in you is a prostitute?” Harry asks. His lips are still twitching. “Think that’s a problem, ‘cause I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re kind of gorgeous.”

“I know that.” He does, and there’s no point in false modesty. “But, like, you’ve also been talking to me? And still aren’t running away even when I’m being, well…” he waves a hand as if to take in the train wreck that is this conversation. “So I had to like, check.”

“You’re still talking to me too,” Harry points out. He leans forward, covers the hand of Zayn’s that’s resting on the table with his own. “Are you a prostitute? You’re certainly pretty enough to be.”

Zayn laughs. He can’t help it. Maybe he won’t tell Louis about this. “Nah,” he says, and throws caution to the wind. He flips his hand over, so their palms are touching, and leans forward too, so he can whisper in Harry’s ear. “Doesn’t mean I’m not yours for the night.”

Harry grins, pleased and syrup-slow. “Yeah?”

Zayn feels drunk, on champagne and weddings and Harry’s smile. “Yeah.”


	2. Chapter 2

_**Prompt: "Wait right here don't move!"** _

People always expect Harry to be the brat when he’s sick. And he is, he can admit. He likes to be spoiled and when he’s sick he can be whiny and petulant and probably really annoying. But they also think Zayn’s probably all good at being sick, and Harry always feels like somehow he needs to set them straight.

‘Cause the thing with Zayn is, he won’t just admit he’s sick. No, he’ll keep on working and pushing and pretending he’s okay until he actually cannot move, and even then he won’t say anything really will just curl up in bed and sleep for forty-eight hours and call it good. He’s seriously lucky there’s never been anything really wrong with him, Harry’s thought sometimes, or else he could just be _dying_ and no one would know about it.

Eventually, when Harry finally manages to get Zayn to move in with him, it’ll be fine, because then he’ll know immediately and make Zayn get his vitamins right away and then he’ll be better. But until then, the only way Harry knows Zayn is at all sick is because he gets a text from him asking if he’d mind picking up an assignment for him.

Harry, who has known Zayn long enough to know that if he asks for a bandaid, you should probably just bring an entire ace bandage and supplies for stitching, shows up on Zayn’s doorstep laden with bags.

Zayn looks awful when he opens the door, or as awful as Zayn can ever look, in sweatpants with a beanie tugged over his hair and a massive sweatshirt on that Harry thinks might have been his at one point, all pale and haggard looking.

“Haz?” he asks. His voice is scratchy. He probably hasn’t been properly hydrating. So Harry just pushes past him and shuts the door behind him, then heads into the kitchen to set down his bags. Zayn trails after him, rubbing at his eyes. It’d be adorable, if it didn’t also mean Zayn was ill. “What’d you, like, why’re you…”

Harry unpacks the chicken soup he’d bought—if he’d had a little time, he could have made it, but someone hadn’t told him in time that he was feeling poorly—then slings the backpack over his shoulder again.

“You asked for me to come!” he says cheerfully, and starts to herd Zayn into the bedroom. It’s kind of gross in there, the sort of detritus of being sick, but Harry can deal with that later. Right now, he pushes Zayn gently into bed. He goes easily, which tells Harry more than it doesn’t about how sick he is.

“I asked you to pick something up for me, right?” Zayn’s eyebrows furrow. “I didn’t think I said anything…”

“Well, no, but you want me here anyway.” Harry drops the bag on the bed next to Zayn, and starts unpacking it—the new CD he got last night, three comics Liam told him Zayn would like, all the DVDs he thought Zayn might possibly want from his collection, and a blanket, because he wasn’t entirely sure Zayn had enough. “You’re just lucky I don’t have class today, or else I’d have had to skip and find someone to take notes.”

“You shouldn’t…”

“Shush.” Harry pats Zayn on the head, easily dodges the hand Zayn bats at him, then climbs into bed next to him. “So, we have—shit. Wait right here, don’t move.” He jumps off the bed, runs into the kitchen.

“Wasn’t going—” Zayn starts, but he starts hacking halfway through. Harry frowns as he boils the water. It doesn’t sound good. He should probably make Liam come bring a thermometer later.

A few minutes later, Harry reenters the bedroom with two mugs of tea. Zayn’s made a bit of a nest in the blankets, but Harry climbs carefully in next to him, then rearranges them both so they’re nestled together, can both see the laptop Harry’s pulled onto his computer, Zayn can hold onto his tea, and Harry has a hand free to run over Zayn’s back.

“There. All the ingredients for a good recuperation,” Harry announces. “Now aren’t you pleased I came over?”

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Zayn mutters into his mug, which isn’t a no, so Harry figures it’s as close to an admission as he’s going to get and kisses the top of his head before he starts the first movie.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Prompt: "Are you flirting with me?"** _

“Come here often?”

The minute Harry says it he knows it’s a stupid thing to say, so cliché, so uncool, but the guy standing next to him at the bar just raises an eyebrow and smirks a bit. It’s really hot. He’s really hot, but Harry’d known that from back at the booth where his mates were sitting. He just—he’s really hot up close, in a way that looks really cool, too, slicked back hair and sharp features and knowing eyes.

He doesn’t laugh, at least. “Not so much, no. You?”

“Oh, loads.” The guy’s lips press together, and they’re very pretty and pink framed by neat scruff that Harry thinks would probably feel great against his thighs. “All the time.”

“Really.” The guy casts his gaze around the bar, the rowdy Friday night crowds. “All the time?”

“Yeah.” Harry agrees a bit wildly. He can do this. He can. Niall will laugh at him for a long time if he doesn’t. “Never seen anyone as hot as you come in, though.”

The guy’s other eyebrow rises. It’s still hot. Harry has no idea how that works. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Yes?” Harry pauses, then says again, more definitively, “Yes. Although if you had to ask, not sure I’m doing it right.” He gives the guy his best smile, the one with the dimples. “Buy you a drink to make up for it?”

“Will you be arrested for that?” he asks, and the smile falters a bit. Harry’s not—well, he’s not technically allowed in the bar, but only because he has a late birthday for his year!

“No,” He says instead, trying for bravado. The guy snorts. “Fine, no if I don’t get caught.”

“Uh-huh. So, your friends dare you to come hit on me?”

“What friends?” If he thinks he’s here alone, he’s probably more likely to make a move, and Harry will seem cooler, going to bars all on his own.

“The ones laughing their asses off in the corner.” Harry glances over his shoulder. Niall shakes his fists triumphantly at him, then gets yanked down sharply by Liam. “That you were laughing with before, too.”

Ah. There we go. Harry grins again. “So you were watching me.” He grins again, rallying. He’s the most charming person he knows, he can do this. He can do something with this pretty stranger at a bar.

“Maybe I was watching your friend.”

“Maybe you weren’t.” Harry sidles a little closer, leans forward so his shirt gapes open, and the guy’s eyes flick down to the chest his half-buttoned shirt show before darting guiltily back up to Harry’s eyes.

“Maybe I wasn’t,” he agrees. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. Harry watches it, entranced. “Got a name?”

“Harry.”

“How old are you, Harry?”

Harry considers lying, but he knows he’s got the babiest face that ever lived, other than Niall. “Seventeen.”

“Really?”

“Want to see my ID?”

“Your fake, or your real one?”

“Either.” Harry sways a little closer. “How old are you, mysterious no named man who watches my friends?”

He laughs, and it’s a great sound, rough and low and Harry thinks he could listen to it for a long time. “Zayn. I’m nineteen.”

“That’s not much older,” Harry points out. He’d thought Zayn had been older, honestly, but he’s kind of glad he’s not.

“No,” Zayn agrees. The look he gives Harry is a confusing combination of hungry and sweet, a flash of hazel under really long lashes. “It’s not.”


	4. Chapter 4

_**Prompt: pretending to date you because someone was obnoxiously hitting on you AU** _

“So baby, you gonna come dance with me?” The guy is drunk, Zayn can tell. Partly because he’s swaying a bit, and his little eyes are bleary, but mainly because he’s not picking up on all the very uncomfortable signs Harry is throwing off. Harry would never tell him to fuck off, of course, because he’s far too polite for that, but he’s doing his awkward shifting between his feet thing, and he’s not making any sort of eye contact.

Of course, after three years of friendship, Zayn might be more attuned to Harry’s body language than other people, who might just see his polite smile and the interest he can’t help but show in everyone and not know how different it is from his real smile, which is like sunshine, and his real interest, which is so heady Zayn sometimes can’t deal with it. But still, Harry’s never been subtle, and this is no different. And Harry’s pretty obviously with friends, too, because Zayn is literally standing right next to him at the bar, and the guy just can’t seem to see that.

“Don’t think there’s dancing here,” Harry replies politely. Zayn, personally, would have told them just to go fuck themselves, but that’s why Harry’s the nice one.

“Think there’s dancing at my place,” the guy leers, leaning in, and Harry leans back and he looks scared and that is the last straw.

“Not for him,” Zayn says sharply, turning so he can slide his arm around so it rests proprietarily on the small of Harry’s back. The guy seems to notice him for the first time, his eyes widening at Zayn’s face. Zayn’s always been pretty good ay contemptuous sneers. And luckily, he’s wearing a lot of black today and all his tattoos show on his arm, so he probably looks intimidating enough the guy won’t notice he’s probably twice Zayn’s weight. “Unless I’m invited too, of course.”

Harry’s eyes widen too, and Zayn can feel him jerk a little under Zayn’s hand. Zayn gives him his best meaningful look—now would be a really great time for the semi-telepathy he has with Louis to kick in—but then Harry seems to get it, and he leans easily into Zayn. “Sorry,” Zayn goes on, turning them so that he’s closing the other guy out of the conversation, “Got caught up. Want another drink, babe?”

“Dunno.” Harry gives him one of his real smiles, those brilliant shining things full of dimples and mischief that always make Zayn want to do something stupid just to get another one, “Think maybe we should get going.” He tilts his head so he can whisper in Zayn’s ear, and knowing Harry it probably looks really dirty. “How annoyed does he look?”

Zayn whispers back, though with the angle he more gets Harry’s cheek than his ear, his lips almost touching the flushed skin there. “Very.”

“Good. Now grab my ass.”

“What?”

“Do it!” Obediently, and also because Harry has a very nice ass, Zayn slides his hand down and squeezes. Harry yelps and beams at him, clearly pleased. The guy glares, clearly displeased.

“Come on,” Zayn tells Harry, and guides him out with a hand on his back and Harry pressed up next to him.

When they’re outside, out of sight, Zayn drops his hand, but Harry doesn’t move away from him. Instead, he drops his eyelids so the look he gives Zayn is that sleepy, knowing look he gets when he’s doing something cheeky. “We should probably keep up the charade,” he says, in a slow drawl, easing around so they’re facing each other. “You know, in case he’s following us?”

“I don’t think he is.” Zayn looks over Harry’s shoulder, but no one’s coming out.

Harry’s hands are on his waist now, and Zayn hadn’t known—how hadn’t he know how easy this would feel? How simple? How he wanted this? “He might be,” Harry points out, and really, Zayn thinks, as Harry pulls him closer, he’s got a point.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Prompt: "Can you help me sneak my cat into my dorm" au** _

_can you come over?_ Harry grabs his phone to read the text, blinks, then reads it again. It’s about one am, and there’s really only one way to interpret that text, right? Like, there are only so many reasons to summon someone to your room at one in the morning, even when that someone is someone you’ve only known for a few weeks since you moved into these dorms. And—it’s not that Harry’s objecting, because it’s Zayn, and Harry wouldn’t ever deny he’d fall into bed with Zayn in a heartbeat, but he hadn’t thought Zayn would be so forward, or that he was that obvious. And, in his heart of hearts, he had hoped—well, this was a booty call, and things didn’t really go from booty call into marriage and kids and sitting together on their porch when they were eighty.

Still, it’s not like he’s going to say no, so he types back a quick _sure! Be right over_ and scrambles out of bed. He spends a few minutes fussing with his hair, then changes his shirt so he think he hits the right level of ‘just rolled out of bed and doesn’t really care that we’re going to have sex but is also attractive enough that you will have sex with me’, and lets himself out of his room and trots down the hall to Zayn’s. The light’s on in Zayn’s room, but the door is shut, so he knocks.

The door opens a crack as soon as he knocks, and Zayn’s head comes into view. “Oh, good, thanks,” he says, with one of his heart-stopping smiles. It’s kind of an odd thing to say when someone’s coming over for a booty call, but hey, Harry thanks people for weird things too. “Come on in.” He opens the door a little wider, and stands back to let Harry in. The instant he’s in, the door slams closed. Which is flattering enthusiasm, but when Harry isn’t pressed back against the door in the next instant, he takes another look around.

Zayn isn’t even looking at him. He doesn’t look like someone who called for a booty call either, in sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, with his hair the kind of mess that Harry thinks isn’t there on purpose, even if it’s still hot. He’s bent over instead, muttering something.

“Zayn?” Harry asks. He’s confused.

“One sec.” There’s some more noise, a low swearing, then Zayn is straightening and turning back around—and now Harry is _really_ confused.

“That’s a cat.”

“Uh-huh.” Zayn’s smiling down at the tabby kitten cradled in his arms, soft and sweet. Harry’s heart thumps, but—what does the cat have to do with the booty call? “Or, I mean,” Zayn starts, when he looks up and must see the confusion on Harry’s face, “I know we’re not allowed, but she was abandoned on the side of the road in a basket, and I couldn’t just leave her, Harry. Look how sweet she is!” he ran his hand over her head, and Harry could hear her purr. He sympathized. He’d probably purr too, if Zayn was petting his hair like that.

“So…What am I doing here?”

“Oh, right.” Zayn looks up from the cat. “Can you stay with her while I run out and get some stuff from downstairs? Sorry I woke you up, if I did, but I don’t really know anyone else on the floor…”

“Oh.” Harry looks again at Zayn with the cat in his arms, looking soft and warm and so careful with the cat. “Yeah, of course.”

“Great, thanks!” Zayn grins at him, and the cat meows. Marriage, Harry thinks vaguely, through the wild thumping of his heart. Marriage and a cat on Zayn’s lap on that porch in their old age. Yeah. Definitely that.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Prompt: end up getting married in vegas although we’re total strangers AU** _

It’s not exactly what Zayn expected from Vegas, he can admit, studying his hand and the gold band on it. Not that he had expected much from Vegas, or from Louis’s bachelor party, but he could admit he hadn’t thought he’d be the one to get into a scrape.

“Oh my god,” the guy—his husband, he guesses—says. He sounds sort of like he’s hyperventilating. His chest is certainly rising and falling quickly. It’s a nice chest. Good to know drunk-Zayn has good taste. Though he’s certainly freaking out a lot. “Oh my god,” he repeats. “Oh my—we got married.”

“Yeah, seems so.”

“We got _married_ ,” he says again. Zayn hopes he’s a better conversationalist than this usually. Otherwise their presumably short marriage will be pretty boring. Though he’s quite good-looking, so there’s that. “Like, with rings!”

“I noticed.”

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” The eyes he turns to Zayn are big and green, wide like he’s actually scared, and Zayn can’t help the protectiveness that washes over him. He has a soft spot for the lost and scared, and there’s something about this guy, something that makes him want to wrap blankets around him and keep him safe and warm all the time. Maybe it’s the husbandly feelings coming in. “We’re _married_!”

Zayn shrugs. “And we’ll get divorced. We’re not the first people to get drunkenly married in Vegas. I’m pretty sure there’s a procedure for this. Unless you want to go to court for all ten dollars I have to my name.” He tries to smile, to calm him down. “You aren’t getting custody of the dog.”

He seems to perk up at that. “Dog?”

“Or the cats.”

“Cats? Plural? How many pets do you have?” The guy’s shoulders are uncurling, and he’s breathing easier.

“Two cats, a dog, and a lizard,” Zayn answers. He’s gotten enough grief over what Louis calls his menagerie not to care who teases him about it. Animals are easy, though. “And I’m fostering another dog, too, until we can find a home for him.”

“Fostering?” his eyelashes flutter. It’s unduly charming, especially with those plump pink lips curving into a smile, and dimples carving into his cheeks. God. Zayn can tell why he married this man. “You’re a good person, aren’t you?”

“I like to think so.”

The guy grins again. All that stress seems to have disappeared entirely, and now he’s lounging back in the bed, his long, well-muscled legs stretched out in front of him. “Oh, good. You really think it’ll be easy to fix this?”

“Yeah, probably. One of my mates here is a lawyer, too, he might know better.”

“Okay.” The guy’s smile changes, becomes cheeky almost, knowing despite his cherub’s face, and his hand moves to rest heavy on Zayn’s thigh. “Then, husband, we should probably enjoy this marriage while it lasts, yeah?”

“Maybe I’m not that easy,” Zayn retorts, but he’s pretty sure he is.  

The other guy sticks his lip out into an entirely too adorable pout. “You wouldn’t say no on our honeymoon, would you?” he says, sing-song, and Zayn can’t help but laugh as he rolls over on top of his husband.

“Good point,” he agrees, and leans down to kiss him. Marriage isn’t all bad, he decides. Not with the right person.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Prompt: Poor!Zayn rich!Harry** _

“I’m not going in there.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Zayn gives the store a look that Harry knows, too well. It’s the one he gets when he’s going to be stubborn. Sometimes, that’s good, because he’s being stubborn about something like getting Harry off one more time, or it’s adorable, like when he’s stubborn about not getting out of bed. Now, it’s just annoying. “Because, Harry.” 

“But I want to go in!” Sometimes Zayn will let Harry do things for him if Harry phrases it as him wanting to do things.

“No, you want me to go in.” Damn, that plan foiled.

So Harry tries another tack. “But this is your birthday present! Aren’t I allowed to get you a birthday present?”

“Yeah, but…” Zayn gives the store another look, half scorn and half what Harry thinks might be fear. “You’re not, like, my sugardaddy, Harry. I don’t need you to buy me things.”

“You’re older than me, I can’t be the sugar daddy,” Harry points out, rolling his eyes. “And I know. I want to, and you like nice clothes, I know you do, and for your birthday I want to get you some things you like. That’s all.”

“But that’s what everyone in there will think.” Zayn bites his lip again.

Harry lets out an exasperated, breath, grabs Zayn’s hips to bring him close. Zayn comes with a surprised laugh despite their argument. “So what? Maybe I want to show off my hot boyfriend.”

“That’s kind of the problem.”

“My hot, brilliant, boyfriend, who I would love no matter what,” Harry goes on, firmly. “And whose birthday I want to celebrate by giving him a present I know he’ll like. That’s all. Let them think whatever they want.”

“But, you have to—”

“Zayn,” Harry says, cutting him off. “That’s all.”

“Yeah.” Zayn lets out a long breath. “Okay.” He looks so determined, like this is a test, that Harry has to kiss him, a quick peck on the cheek.

“Great! Let’s go. I want to see you in one of their sweaters, they have some great things…”

“I am not wearing anything you think is great,” Zayn warns, and Harry laughs as he ushers Zayn into the boutique.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Prompt: I audition to model in your music video and we end up hitting it off AU**_  

Really, Zayn doesn’t see why he has to sit in on these auditions. He’s not producing the music video, after all—he’s barely in the music video, actually, because everyone’s long since learned that trying to make him dance only ends in frustrated directors and him feeling humiliated. So it’ll mainly just be him singing while people dance around him, or act something out—it’s going to a bit of both apparently, a bit of a narrative, which he likes. But he’s not going to really be interacting with them at all. Just some sort of muse, his director had told him, a director himself showing their love story. Which is cool, and all, and it’s a great concept and Zayn was totally jazzed when he’d been shown the idea, but right now it’s early and he’s sat through ten different auditions and he has another bunch coming up after this break. 

He slips out during the break, even though technically he thinks they’re supposed to be discussing something. But if he doesn’t get coffee right now he will just fall asleep, and that won’t look good for anyone, and anyway he doesn’t know anything about lighting, so he just leaves the little room where the actual auditions are taking place to go on his coffee quest.

The audition room opened onto a hallway, and Zayn wanders down it, peeking into a few different rooms until he finally finds one that looks like a break room, or maybe it’s the waiting room and there aren’t any more auditions—there probably are, Zayn knows people are excited about this video, and he’s excited people are excited, he is, he’ll just be more so once they can actually start shooting. He’s always better in front of a camera.

But there is coffee in this room, thank God, so Zayn ambles in. It’s one of those individual cups coffee makers, so he starts his going then closes his eyes to see if he can manage a quick standing-up catnap while he waits.

“Hey!” A voice interrupts him. His eyes fly open. Dammit. “Hi, is this where we go for the auditions?” the voice continues. It’s owner is probably coming through the doors now. Zayn hunches his shoulders, pulls his beanie down over his hair more. It’s not going to disguise him or anything, but it might get him out of here with his coffee.

“Yeah?” he says, “Or, I think so. They’re on a break.”

“Oh, good. Was worried I was late or something, and I was trying to be so early too, just in case, you know? Things tend to happen to me, I wanted to make sure I had time for some catastrophes.” It’s a low, cheerful voice, and Zayn can’t help but steal a sidelong glance at the guy. He’s…pretty cute, actually, in a way a lot of the dancers haven’t been, with good bodies and handsome faces but none of the ease Zayn had pictured for the roles. His song wasn’t about perfect people, after all, it was about two boys who weren’t perfect at all. But this boy’s not classically handsome, for all he’s got a perfectly good body Zayn wouldn’t mind spending some time looking at. He’s just…right.

“Anyway,” he goes on, apparently not caring that Zayn hasn’t been answering. “Are you auditioning too? I’ve never liked how people can be mean before auditions, it ruins the karma of it. I’ve made some of my best friends before auditions.” The coffee maker buzzes, so Zayn moves to take his mug out of the well. “Which part do you—” he cuts himself off as Zayn turns. “You’re Zayn.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, because, well, he is.

“Oh.” The guy is only flummoxed for a second, then he breaks out into a brilliant smile that’s all dimples and sunlight and Zayn’s almost blinded by it for a second. Yes, this is what he wants, he thinks a little dazedly. Enthusiasm and charm. “Oh, wow! I’m really excited to be here, I looked at the idea for the video and I think it’s great, doing it with two guys even if there aren’t pronouns, I’d really love to be a part of it. If you think I’m best, obviously, I want it to be the best it can be and if that was me that would be great, but you’ve got the final word, obviously, and wow, you’re kind of even prettier in person, did you know that?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow, amused, but the guy just keeps on going. “I mean, you probably do know that, not that you’re vain just that you have to know that in this business, and it’s not like I’ve watched a lot of you not in person—well, I have, but just like music videos and interviews because I really like your music, and I’m going to stop talking now before I ruin my chances completely.” He mimes locking up his mouth, and Zayn can’t help but chuckle at that. This is better than caffeine, somehow.

“It’s fine,” he says, “I think you’re great for the role. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Really?” The guy’s eyes widen, then he seems to remember he wasn’t talking and locks his lips again.

“Yeah.” Zayn takes a sip of coffee to consider his next words, but there’s something about this guy’s openness that makes him want to be open too. “Wouldn’t mind seeing you around set some.”

“Yeah,” the guy agrees. “I mean, yeah, I’d love to be there. To work on the video, not to see you. Or, to see you too.” He stops, swallows. “Sorry. I swear, I can be smoother than this. I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“No worries.” Zayn doesn’t say anything about how he’s sort of used to gushing, because that would be vain and also he isn’t, really. It usually weirds him out. But somehow, not from this guy. “You’re kind of perfect.”

“For the video?”

Zayn pauses significantly. “Yeah,” he agrees, glancing down at his mug. He knows better than to push this, because it’s far too easy for him to abuse his position, especially now when he’s auditioning, and just because this guy is charming as hell and adorable and Zayn wouldn’t mind getting his hands in that long hair, doesn’t mean he has a right to assume. “For the video.”


	9. Chapter 9

_**Prompt: the always-partying kid falls for the always-studying kid college au** _

Harry tumbles into the room at Niall’s heels, laughing as Niall fumbled with the door and almost crashed in, then pouting as Niall laughed when Harry tripped on not one, but two different books on the floor, before he finally manages to topple over onto Niall’s bed. “Fuck,” he moans, “I’m drunk.”

“Never would have noticed,” comes a voice Harry doesn’t know, and for the first time he actually looks over the room to see that someone’s sitting in the chair at the desk across from Niall’s. Someone who is turning around in his chair to look at Harry and Niall. Someone with cheekbones that could cut glass and lovely dark-rimmed eyes and a dark sweep of hair. Those eyes are looking very judgey right now, but they are also very, very pretty. “Really, Niall? It’s a Wednesday.”

“Which means it’s basically Thursday, and Thursday’s the new Friday,” Niall retorts, laughing. “And it’s not like you’re asleep, Zee.”

“It’s a Wednesday,” this Zee person, who Harry has cleverly deduced must be Niall’s roommate, reiterates. “I’ve got reading.”

“Should have come out with us, mate,” Niall tells him, then nods at Harry. “This is Harry, by the way. He’s a mate. Harry, this is Zayn. He’s my roommate. He studies all the time, and but he’s also awesome.”

“I like how you think those are contradictory,” Zayn teases, but he’s smiling at Niall and it’s a beautiful, beautiful smile that Harry thinks would look best when pointed at him.

“Clearly aren’t in you,” he tries, and Zayn turns to look at him, the smile dying.

“Yeah?” He bites on his lip, and that is another thing that would best be done on Harry, Harry thinks. “I mean…”

“He means,” Niall fills in, “That he accepts your compliment a lot. He just doesn’t always know it.”

“Why would I, when you’re there to accept for me?” Zayn retorts. He shakes his head. “Anyway. Nice to meet you, Harry. I’m glad someone is keeping Niall entertained.”

“I do try.” I could keep you entertained, he wants to say. He doesn’t know why Zayn’s struck him so hard. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk. Maybe it’s because Zayn is so very, very lovely. Maybe it’s the way he talks back to Niall but gives Harry shy, tentative smiles. “I’m very good at entertaining.”

“Nah, Zayn doesn’t need anything other than his books,” Niall informs him. “Right, Zee?”

“Yeah. Books are better than people, anyway.”

“Not better than me!” Harry objects. It is important Zayn knows that, he thinks. “I’m much more entertaining.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks. His lips quirk into a smile that’s basically a challenge. “Well, you two can go back to entertaining each other. I need to read this chapter.”

He turns at his desk and leans over the book again. Harry can only stare at the way his back arches, at the fern that peeks out from under the collar of his t-shirt, at the breadth of his shoulders.

“Is he real?” he breathes out, mainly to Niall, and Niall laughs. Harry’s not sure he was kidding. But fuck, he wants to find out.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Prompt: all boys boarding school AU** _

“So, boys.” Louis slings an arm over Liam and Niall’s shoulders, grins at Harry and Zayn where they’re lounging on Harry’s bed. “Plans for this year? I’m thinking we need a goal of at least three suspensions.”

“How about we try for none,” Liam suggests. Louis snorts, and removes his arm. Liam doesn’t deserve it if he’s thinking like that.

“We can’t aim that high,” Zayn drawls. Harry giggles, like he always does whenever Zayn opens his mouth. Louis manages to resist rolling his eyes. Everything was a lot simpler before people decided to go and get feelings.

And just like that, he has a new, amazing plot for this year.

“Just for that, Malik,” Louis retorts. This will be brilliant. “I’ve got a new plan. My goal for this year: get you laid at last.”

“What?” Harry yelps. His hand twitches, inches closer to where Zayn’s is lying on the bed like he could claim him that way.

“Shouldn’t we maybe let Zayn decide when that happens?” Liam cuts in. Niall, good man that he is, seems to be getting what’s going on, because he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s past time,” Louis waves a hand. “We can’t all be slags like Harry, getting off in loos during breaks.”  Now it’s Zayn’s turn to twitch, but away from Harry this time. Harry just leans over more, closing the distance between them until he’s just leaning on Zayn. It’s a bit nauseating, if he’s being honest. “But you, Malik, will just have to bite the bullet.”

Niall wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think there should be biting involved.”

“Depends what the bullet is,” Louis informs him cheerfully. He’s not entirely sure how the innuendo works, but he doesn’t think anyone will call him on it, because Zayn’s the one who would and Zayn’s trying very hard not to be awkward right now while Harry is draping himself over him like he can keep him from ever touching anyone else if he just keeps him pinned to the bed. “So, Zayn, what will your pleasure be? I know Johnson would be up for it. Or next weekend when we go into town, El’s got a friend—”

“No!” Harry almost yells it. Louis grins to himself. His plans are so good. “I mean,” Harry goes on, when he gets three odd looks. Louis does not give him an odd look, because he left subtle behind sometime last year when he started climbing into Zayn’s lap basically whenever Zayn sat down. “I mean, Zayn should do it on his own time, with whoever he wants—” Louis can practically see the _me me me_ going on in Harry’s brain as he says it—“and not because you’re pushing him into anything, Louis, that’s—”

“Maybe I do want,” Zayn snaps Louis is more brilliant than he thought, because obviously he definitely factored Zayn’s pride into this. Harry’s arms tighten around Zayn’s waist. Zayn doesn’t pull away, even as he meets Louis’s eyes fiercely, with the sort of determination he gets whenever he’s got to do something unpleasant but necessary. “Fine, boys. Operation get me laid is a go.”

“Great!” Louis claps his hands, as Liam sighs and Niall chuckles, and Harry makes a choked sound that Zayn must somehow not hear. “Now we just need to find volunteers. Any thoughts, lads?”

Louis can actually see Harry bite his lip. He gives it a month, most. He’s really so good at this, he should make it a business, he decides, as he leans back and watches the drama unfold.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Prompt: we met at a really strict summer camp and ended up breaking all the rules together one by one AU** _

“You know,” Zayn muses, then trails off. Harry glances over at him. He’s leaning against the tree trunk of the big oak, watching the kids at archery, his eyes distant in that way he gets when he’s thinking of something cool for them to do. Harry’d been pretty cool just lounging in the sun today, but Zayn’s never steered them wrong yet. Well, he’s steered Harry pretty wrong, but never steered him less than fun, and he thinks Zayn feels the same way about Harry. 

“What?” Harry prompts, nudging him with his hip. Zayn grins up at him, loose and lazy, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Just thought of another stupid rule we haven’t broken yet.”

“Oh?” Harry had thought they had gone through most of them. But Zayn was the one who had actually studied the list. “What’s that?”

“Sex.”

“What?” Harry nearly chokes. “There are rules about that?”

Zayn’s laughing, because he likes shocking Harry too much. “Not exactly. But, like, kissing and shit. Gotta keep two feet between all campers at all times,” he recites, and slides an arm around Harry’s waist like it’s just to contradict that. His arm’s warm and heavy there, with the hand resting idly on his hip. If he moved it down the tiniest bit, it would be on his ass. “’s stupid. It’s not like we’re twelve.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. It might be easier to be friends with Zayn if they were twelve. “So, what’s the plan for this one? Becca would totally kiss you, or Karen or Chris would absolutely make out with me if I said the word. I could—”

Zayn snorts out a laugh, then he’s sliding around so both his hands are on Harry’s hips and he’s leaning in, his lips pressed to Harry’s in a quick peck that Harry feels down to his toes. “There,” Zayn says. He’s still close enough that Harry could count every one of his eyelashes. “There’s that done.”

Harry swallows. “Bet that would have been allowed,” he says, because he’s going to push this as far as he can. “You know, something short like that.”

“You think?” Zayn asks, then he’s kissing him again, and this, this is what Harry really wanted. Zayn’s pushing him into the tree, his hands twisting in Harry’s hair as Harry grabs at his waist to bring him closer, and their lips and tongues are sliding together until Harry thinks he could come just from this, from the finally.

Zayn looks a bit wild eyed when he pulls away, but he’s smiling too. “That better?” he asks.

Harry chuckles breathlessly. “Definitely broke a rule there,” he agrees. Zayn hasn’t moved, is still pressing into him with a thigh between his legs. “You sure there isn’t a rule about sex?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s implied—”

Harry rolls his hips pointedly, his fingers tightening in Zayn’s skin. “You positive?” he asks again.

Zayn catches on quick enough, with a short gasp. “Think there might have been,” he says, quickly, “Probably missed it the first time around. We should break that one too.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and yanks Zayn back in. Damn the rules. He just wants to touch Zayn as much as he can. “We probably should.” 


	12. Chapter 12

_**Prompt:** **Actors who have a kissing scene** _

The kiss is slow and deep and lingering, a _hello_ and a _please_ and a _again again again_. There’s a hand on his face, drawing him in; his hands are caught between them, from where he had been fiddling with the tie before the tension had finally broken. He can feel the heat of the lights overhead, how his makeup is melting a little, thank god it’s the last scene of the day. He pushes into the kiss a little, because that’s what Gregory would do, desperate for this man he’s wanted for so long who has finally seen him, and Harry turns his head a little.

“And…cut!” The kiss breaks, and Zayn steps back, rolling out his neck as he grins at Harry, whose similarly making faces just to break out of the smolder he’s been in for most of the scene. “That was great, boys,” The director calls from his chair. “Fans are going to go wild. That’s it for today for you two. Horan, Calder, you’re up next!”

Zayn gives Harry a quick grin before they’re both bustled off to separate wardrobes. It was a good day, and the fans have waited for the Gregory-John kiss for ages. Even if it won’t be the end of their will they or won’t they, of course—that’s the whole point of the show—it’s still going to be a big thing, he knows. He can’t wait for the episode to air, to watch the fans go wild, because that’s still the best part, curled up on the couch with Harry watching Twitter go wild.

Finally, make-up lets him go. He’s not sure where Harry will be, but he sometimes likes to go get a drink with the crew after they’re off, and as Eleanor and Niall’s scene was the last one scheduled for today, he might be sticking around. But Zayn’s exhausted, he wants to go home, so he shoots Harry a quick text to let him know before heading through the lot to head home.

He’s just out the door when suddenly there’s a hand on his wrist pulling him into an alley between stages. Zayn freezes at first, but then he relaxes when he recognizes the scent, and then in quick succession the kiss that meets him. Harry doesn’t kiss at all like John did, just like Zayn doesn’t kiss like Gregory; this one’s easy and comfortable and Harry’s playful with it, and Zayn lets his hands slide down to Harry’s ass to pull him closer as Harry nips at his lip.

“Hey,” Zayn grins, when they separate. “Long time no see.”

Harry shrugs, unrepentant. It’s not like they’re exactly a secret, even if no one’s confirmed anything. “I wanted to catch you before you went home,” he explains. “And…” he bites his lip, and now he’s looking a bit…not ashamed, Harry’s utterly shameless all the time, but like he looks when he feels silly about something.

“And what, babe?” Zayn asks. He reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind Harry’s ear, and Harry tilts his head into the motion, so Zayn’s fingers drag over his cheek.

“And I wanted to kiss you as us,” Harry admits, with a self-deprecating laugh. “Just, as soon as I could.”

Zayn understands—he’d delayed this for too long, wondering if the sexual tension was just derived from their characters or if it was real—but he has to smile too, because he doesn’t think he could ever confuse how they kiss and how their characters kiss. “I know,” he says softly, cupping Harry’s chin with his hands when it looks like he’s going to duck his head. “Think you should kiss me again, to make sure.”

“I probably should,” Harry agrees, and does just that, without cameras, or anyone to yell cut on them.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Prompt: "Could you repeat that?"** _

“Can I have a pint of Guinness, a Cosmo, and a Sex on the Beach?” Zayn stood firm against the frat bro jostling him on his left, and made sure to meet the bartender’s eyes so he knew he was talking to him. It wasn’t exactly a hardship to meet the bartender’s eyes; they were a very pretty shade of green set in a strong-jawed face that seemed made for smiling. So he smiles too, just a bit. Because, well, hot bartender, he’s not going to say no. 

“What was the last one?” the bartender’s voice was lower than Zayn’d expected, smooth as honey coming from pink lips.

“Sex on the Beach.” Zayn didn’t really know why anyone would drink that, but it was his round and if that was what Chris wanted, well, he wasn’t going to judge.

“Could you repeat that?”

“Sex on the Beach.”

“One more time?”

“Sex on the Beach,” Zayn repeated. Normally he’d be annoyed, because it wasn’t actually that loud, but there was something about this guy that was disarming him. “You know what it is?”

“Sure.” The guy grinned, and dimples appeared in his cheeks. It made him both look cherubic and sexy as hell, and Zayn wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that. “Just wanted to hear you say it again.”

It could have been creepy, too strong. But Zayn had been staring at the guys’ lips, so. “Sex on the Beach,” he drawled, lingering on the ‘sex’, making his voice go rough like he’d been told was really sexy. “You should be lucky I didn’t order a cock sucking cowboy.”

The bartender almost spilled the pint he was pulling, and Zayn grinned to himself. This could be fun.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Prompt: "I need this."** _

“No.”

“Harry, come on. Please?”

“No!” Harry puts his foot down, both literally and figuratively. Not hard, because people in the store might look oddly at him if he really started stomping, but definitively. “No, Zayn.”

“But I need this!” Zayn fluttered his eyelashes, pursed his lips into a pout, so his cheekbones stood out. He was really pulling out all the stops, and for a second, Harry weakened. Zayn’s cheekbones had always done that to him.

But then Harry looked at the thing Zayn held in his hands again. “No, Zayn,” he repeated. “We are not going to have a Batman shaped butter dish in our home.”

“But it’s so sick!”

“And if you wanted someone who would agree, you should be marrying Liam.”

Zayn wrinkled his nose at that. It was a nice feeling. They were a long time past Harry’s insecurities about how little he felt like he understood some of Zayn’s interests, but it was always nice to see. “But I don’t want to marry Liam,” Zayn whined. They’d clearly been at the store too long, if Zayn was whining. He only regressed when he was bored. “I want to marry you. But I also want the Batman butter dish.”

“No. I am not registering for that.”

“Not even if I…” Zayn leaned in, whispered something in Harry’s ear that had him flushing scarlet and also squirming.

“Zayn!” he squeaked. Zayn pulled away, grinning smugly.

“So?”

Harry looked at the dish. It was really atrocious. “No.”

“ _Harry_.” Zayn sighed, and it was the sigh he got when he thought Harry was overreacting to something, when he thought Harry was being hysterical and childish and Harry hated it more than any other noise Zayn made. Except maybe when he cried.

“No, Zayn, I’m not being ridiculous,” Harry snapped. “It’s stupid and it’s something just for you, and this is for us. For our home. For the home we’re going to grow old in together. I want everything to be us.”

Zayn sighed again, but he was smiling slightly. “Fine. Be all romantic.”

“Always with you, Zaynie.” Harry grinned at him, now that the fight was gone, and kissed his cheek. “So we can have the cow butter dish?”

“Fine.” Zayn sighed again, but it was the one he did when he was trying not to give in to Harry, so it was okay. “I’m telling Louis to buy me the Batman one, though.”

“We can use it when he comes over, then,” Harry agrees. Marriage is about compromise, he supposes. They can start now. For instance, Zayn puts the Batman dish back, and then later, when they’re home, Harry can get on his knees for him and make him make much better noises. Everyone wins. They’re going to be so good at this marriage lark, Harry decides, and grabs Zayn’s hand in his own as he pulls him off in search of the food court so he can feed his husband-to-be.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Prompt: "There’s something I’ve been meaning to say…"** _

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Zayn smiles at Harry, from where he’s rested his cheek on Zayn’s shoulder. His arm slips around Zayn’s waist too, so he can pretend he can feel the weight through the thick fabric of his tuxedo jacket. Harry smells like the champagne he’s drunk and sweat from dancing and the cologne he’d put on this morning, and he feels like home. “Done dancing?”

“For right now. Gonna get you out there soon.” Zayn laughs, because, no, and throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders to hug him close. Together, they watch the dancers swirling under the tea lights. In the center of them, the bride and groom sway together, her head resting on his shoulder almost like Harry’s is on Zayn’s, his hand steady on the small of her back, holding her close. It’s beautiful. The whole thing had been beautiful, from the vows to the church to the tent to Harry stood up on the altar to hand over the rings, sleek and sexy in the tux he had not been allowed to choose himself. Not that Zayn doesn’t love Harry’s unique sense of style, because he does. But there’s something about him in the classic tux that’s had him considering how best to show his appreciation when they leave tonight, how he can make sure Harry comes back to his, or vice versa. He assumes…they were dates here. They have been dates for a while. They should be going back together.

“Hey,” Harry says, poking at his forehead. “Stop thinking. It’s a lovely wedding. Enjoy it.”

“It was,” Zayn agrees. “Someday I’ll take you to one of my family’s weddings, though. It’s…different.” He grins to think of it, to think of Harry mixing with his family, helping his mum in the kitchen and looking at the girls’ henna and watching the bright colors swirl with wide, excited eyes.

Harry beams at him, and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Can’t wait.”

They watch the dancers in silence for another moment, all the couples swaying to the slow songs about forever. It feels right, to listen to these songs with Harry next to him.

“Hey,” Harry says.

“Is for horses.”

“Shut up.” Harry sticks out his tongue, and Zayn laughs. “Stop it. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s smile dims. Or, no, it doesn’t dim, it just changes, goes soft and less goofy. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”  

Oh, no. Zayn knew it. It had been too good to last, Harry had been too good to last. He was moving. He was dying. Something had gone wrong.

“No!” Harry shakes Zayn a little. “It’s not bad, stop worrying.”

“Then stop leading into things like that.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t such a worrywart.”

“You wouldn’t be alive if I wasn’t such a worrywart. We wouldn’t have met if I wasn’t such a worrywart.” They both grin to think of it, how Zayn had pulled the hapless guy on his cell phone away from oncoming traffic, and had somehow ended up with his number and a dazed impression of dimples and gratitude and laughter.

“True. But don’t be one now.” Harry goes quiet again, looks at the dancers, then back at Zayn. “I do have the thing I’ve been meaning to tell you, though.”

“Okay, what?”

“And maybe it’s too soon? I don’t know.” Harry’s reached up to start fiddling with his hair, which is a clear tell he’s nervous. Zayn grabs his hand, pulls it away, then decides to keep it wrapped together. “But, it’s true, and I want to tell you, so I guess it’s the right time? I hope it is.”

“Harry.”

“Iloveyou.” It comes out in a rush, almost all one word. Zayn freezes.  Harry swallows. “I love you,” he repeats, slower, certain. “And you don’t have to say it back, we haven’t been dating that long, but—”

“Harry.” Zayn rubs at his ear to clear his head. “Harry, shit, like, of course I do. Think I’ve been in love with you since the first time we had coffee.”

Harry’s grin is nearly blinding. “Well, I think I’ve been in love with you since you saved me from a car.”

“Are you really turning this into a competition?”

“Are you really not going to kiss me?” Harry retorts. And, well, that’s a pretty good idea, so Zayn does, as the bride and groom dance on in the center of the tent, and the lights twinkle all around them.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Prompt: "You want me to do what?”** _

Zayn looks from the banana, to Harry, then back again. “You want me to do what?”

Harry flutters his eyelashes. It doesn’t work quite as well as on Zayn, but he thinks it’s rather charming. “Make bananas foster.”

“Which involves…”

“Setting them on fire.”

“And you want me to do it?”

“Figured I shouldn’t.”

“Well at least you’ve learned.” Harry thinks that’s a bit rich, really. He’s only almost set himself on fire five times. Maybe six, if you count the thing with the goat, but that was barely a singe. “But why should I do it?”

Harry’d had a list of reasons prepared, but in the end he goes for the coup de grace first. “Because you love me?

Zayn sighs, but his lips twitch, and Harry knows he’s won. “Fine.”

Harry grins, and grabs the lighter. “Okay. Now I’m going to go to the other room first.”

“Probably a good idea,” Zayn agrees, and chases him out of the room with a slap on the ass.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Prompt: "Stop trying to cheer me up!"** _

The thing about Zayn-sulks, Harry knew, was that they only lasted as long as he let them. Sometimes, when he was alone or pissy, they could last for days as he stewed. Other times, when they had things to do or he was distracted, they would only last for minutes. So when Harry found Zayn glaring at his computer screen, he knew what he had to do.

“Harry?” Zayn asked. He sounded more confused than annoyed, which was good. “What are you doing?”

“Juggling!” Harry tossed a fourth ball into the air. “Look, I can do four now!”

“Why are you juggling?”

“Because you’re sulking, and I’m distracting you. Aren’t I impressive?”

“Harry.” Zayn crossed his arms over his chest, and his jaw stuck out. It meant his shoulders looked very broad, and the jaw thing made his cheekbones devastating, so Harry sort of got distracted by remembering last night and dropped the ball, right onto his foot.

It made him swear and hop onto that foot, which in turn made him list to the side and hit the table, which toppled over a porcelain elephant that then fell onto Zayn’s skateboard, which flew across the floor to tip the wardrobe, where a stack of precariously balanced books wobbled, seemed to settle, then slowly, almost gingerly, slid onto the floor with a _thump_.

Harry watched it happen with wide eyes, then flicked his gaze to Zayn, whose jaw had dropped.

“Sorry?” At least he wasn’t sulking anymore. “I could—”

Zayn rolled his eyes, and opened his arms. “Stop trying to cheer me up. Clearly it’s not good for either of us.”

Harry laughed, and threw himself into Zayn’s open arms. Cuddling was always another good way to cheer Zayn up. And probably included less bodily harm to either of them.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Prompt: "Please stay."** _

The bed’s comfortable, but it’s not Zayn’s bed. He knows that, because he knows his bed forwards and backwards, knows the smell and feel and texture of it. This isn’t his bed. Which means he’s in someone else’s bed. Which means he is not awake enough to deal with this.

Unfortunately, he probably has to, because if he’s awake statistics show whoever he slept with—and now it’s coming back to him, a bar and broad shoulders and strong thighs—probably is too.

He opens his eyes. This proves to be a bad idea, so he closes them again, but in the brief period of sight he catches a room filled with sports posters and something that’s probably a bong. It doesn’t tell him much about whoever he slept with. He wonders if he ever knew their name.

There’s a noise, from somewhere far away, which probably means he should figure out where he is and what happened. He rolls over, and opens his eyes.

There’s a boy in  the doorway of the room, eating cereal. He’s only wearing boxers, and he’s got broad shoulders and narrow hips and thick thighs and a moth covering strong pecs and his hair is pulled back from his face with a scarf and Zayn would think he’d remember him.

“Hey!” the guy says cheerfully, in a surprisingly deep voice, and takes a bite of cereal. His lips are full and pink around the spoon.

“Hi.” Zayn sits up. He is…not wearing a shirt, it would appear. The boy’s eyes rake over him. Wouldn’t he have seen him like this before?

“Jake’s at the gym,” the guy explains, “But he said to tell you thanks.”

“Jake?” It takes a second to process, but the name’s familiar. “Oh. So we didn’t…”

The boy laughs, a low chuckle that sort of sticks in Zayn’s bones. “No. Not that I wouldn’t have, if I’d seen you, but I wasn’t at the bar. I’m pretty sure you did do something last night, though, because I was in the kitchen when you came in.” Zayn’s pretty sure he did something last night too, because he’s fairly naked. And he’s remembering it now. It was…a decent fuck, he thinks. Nothing earth-shattering.

“Right.” Zayn blinks to try to get his mind on track. “I’ll, like, get out of your hair. Sorry.”

“You could have breakfast.” the guy brandishes his cereal. “I could make eggs.”

“I could be a serial killer.”

“A cereal killer?” the guy laughs, and gestures to his bowl. Zayn can’t help but chuckle, because even if it’s a bad joke it’s said with such enthusiasm that Zayn has to laugh. The guy fucking beams, his whole face lighting up, and he has dimples. Zayn is not awake enough to deal with dimples. “Nah, you’re probably cool. You were wearing a batman t-shirt, I don’t think you’re evil.”

“How do you know that?”

The guy grins again, and it’s a bit less beaming and more mischievous. “It’s in the hall.”

“Right.” It’s early, but he manages his best cheeky smile of his own. He won’t be flustered by charm and dimples. “Like the show?”

The guy smirks back. “Wasn’t bad.”

Okay, maybe Zayn will be flustered by charm and dimples and flirtation over cereal when they’re both half-clothed. He’s much better at it when he’s self-possessed and it’s not whenever it is in the morning. “Really, I can get out of your hair.”

“Nah,” the guy’s eyes rake over him again, and there’s no mistaking the look in his eyes. “Please stay.”

Well. It’s not _that_ early. Zayn could go for some breakfast.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Prompt: we actually can’t stand each other but for some reason we talk everyday AU** _

“Ugh!” Zayn hit one final button on his phone, growled, then threw his phone across the room so it hit the pillows on his bed. Louis watched it fly with interest, Liam with resignation.

“Problems?”

“Fucking Styles.” Zayn took a long breath to calm himself down. It didn’t actually matter, he reminded himself. It was just an internet argument. Nothing really important. 

“You could just not respond. Or just unfollow him.”

“He’d still end up on my dash.”

“Block him, then.” Liam was unduly practical, sometimes. It was as endearing as it was annoying. “So you don’t have to see it.”

“But…he’s so wrong!” And not just wrong, but so certain everyone agreed with him that Zayn couldn’t help but need to point out all the ways in which he didn’t. “And he’d still do shit to me.”

“And you can’t not escalate?”

“He doesn’t want to,” Louis broke in, with his evilest grin. “Have you seen his selfies? Those are what Zayn really doesn’t want to block.”

“He doesn’t take selfies, he takes stupid hipster pictures of birds and they get hundreds of notes.”

“And you took that one selfie that get a thousand,” Liam pointed out soothingly. “So—”

“Half those notes were with his fucking caption!” Zayn fumed just to think about it. That was just impolite, to hijack a selfie like that. It was nasty, and Styles was nasty, and even now Zayn could hear his phone buzzing with responses to his reply post to Styles’s latest meta. “It didn’t even fucking make sense!”

Louis tsked. “Isn’t it cute?” he asked Liam, so condescending Zayn had to throw a pillow at him. “Pigtail pulling in the digital age.”

“It’s not pigtail pulling. We hate each other.”

“Uh-huh.” Louis would have ruffled Zayn’s hair if he hadn’t dodged. “Tell me that when half his complaints about you don’t start with ‘he’s pretty, but’. And when you don’t reply to each and every one of them.”

“I—”

“He’s got a point,” Liam agreed. Zayn glared. Liam was supposed to be the sensible one here.

“He doesn’t,” Zayn insisted, and got up to get his phone back to check his notifications to see if Styles had responded.


	20. Chapter 20

_**Prompt: "pretending to date bc reasons AU"** _

It shouldn’t be weird. Zayn’s shared a bed with Harry a million times before, at least, back when they had to share in hotels and now whenever they’re too tired to go to their own rooms or too heartsick for whatever reason. It’s a thing they do, all five of them. It shouldn’t be weird. 

But…there’s something about now. Zayn can feel Harry at his back, can feel his long, steady breathing, the little snorts he makes sometimes. The bed feels too warm. Since when can Zayn not sleep? This isn’t right. He should be asleep, because it’s just Harry, and it’s not anything.

It’s just the circumstances, Zayn tries to tell himself. It’s this act they’re putting on for everyone, because he hadn’t wanted to deal with a big family get-together single again, with everyone so worried about him after Perrie and asking if he’s found anyone and trying to set him up and everything. It hadn’t been a big deal when Harry had laughed and suggested him taking one of them as a fake boyfriend. It hadn’t been a big deal when Zayn had been desperate enough to take it seriously. It hadn’t been a big deal all of today, when Harry had of course charmed every one of Zayn’s relatives, until his aunties were probably ready to trade Zayn in for him. It hadn’t even been a big deal how they hadn’t really acted differently than normal, but everyone had cooed at them, at how Zayn had wrapped an arm around Harry whenever they were near each other, how their eyes met sometimes across the room to check up on each other, how Harry settled into him as soon as they were sitting. It was just what they did, always, but it hadn’t stopped his aunt from pulling him aside and congratulating him on finding a boy who adored him so much.

It was just that that was making it weird, he decided, flipping onto his back so he could stare up at the ceiling. Just…the circumstances.

Harry made another snuffling sound, and then his arm flopped over Zayn’s stomach, and his nose was buried in Zayn’s shoulder, so if Zayn turned his head he’d get a mouthful of hair. If someone came in right now, they wouldn’t think anything of it. They’d think they were dating. They’d think that this was what it always was, Harry holding on like he could anchor Zayn down, like Zayn mattered like that to him, rather than just as his best mate. Like this wasn’t just a lark to him, a fun interlude before he flitted off back to LA or New York or any of his other adventures he took while Zayn went home.

“You okay?” he glances down. Harry’s looking up at him through sleepy eyes. He doesn’t seem concerned about anything, other than Zayn.

“Yeah.”

Harry blinks. “You sure? You’re awake.”

“Just over-caffeinated. Go back to sleep.”

“Kay.” But first, Harry tugs on him, rearranges him until he’s tucked against Harry’s back and Harry’s hugging him to him like a pillow, so when Harry breathes he can feel his chest expand.

They’re not actually going out.

Zayn…just needs to remember that.


	21. Chapter 21

_**Prompt: met doing laundry at 2am college au** _

Zayn is not usually what you would call a night person. He’s not what you would call a morning person either, but that doesn’t mean he likes being up late either. He just needs his sleep.

But none of that matters when he realizes, as he’s about to drop off to sleep at one-thirty, that he hasn’t remembered to do laundry before his parents come to visit tomorrow, and if his dorm room isn’t clean his mum’ll fuss, and he can do everything else in the morning but laundry takes too much time.

So it’s very reluctantly that he rolls back out of bed, gathers up his laundry, and stumbles down to the laundry room at 2 AM, still mainly asleep. He’s not even really sure how he gets down there, but the next thing he knows he’s throwing all his clothes into one washer and putting in the coins.

“You didn’t add detergent.”

Zayn’s too tired to be surprised, so he just turns. There’s a boy sitting on a washer, kicking his heels against it. He’s got on sweats and a t-shirt, his hair is pulled back by a scarf, and his face is broad and handsome, his eyes very very green in the fluorescent lights. Was he sitting there all along?

“I didn’t?”

“Nope.” He pops the p very precisely.

“Oh.” Zayn does, then hits start and watches as the water begins to fill the machine. Then, he blinks and turns around. The guy’s still watching him. “Are you a laundry fairy?”

It’s one of those things Zayn usually doesn’t say out loud, but it’s 2 AM and Zayn wishes he was asleep and he doesn’t even know who this guy is and he doesn’t really give any fucks.

The guy’s brow furrows for a moment. “I don’t think so?” He considers a second more. “No, I just like doing my laundry now.”

Zayn grunts his assent, though not his comprehension. He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to do chores at this hour. 

“Well, it’s always empty,” the guy explains easily, and okay, Zayn must have said that out loud. “And it’s kind of mediative, you know? The chore. The clothes going around, the washer noise, then the dryer noise…”

“Are you high?”

“No.” The guy shrugs. “I’m just always like this. Are you?”

“No?” He had been earlier, he thinks, but he isn’t anymore. “Why?”

“Laundry fairy?” The way he says it, it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of Zayn, just that he’s amused by it. Zayn finds himself oddly proud that he amused this boy, who looks like he’s made for smiling. Who looks like a lot of people want to make him smile.

“Well, you just appeared to give me laundry advice.” Zayn shrugs. “Sounds like the laundry fairy to me.”

“I was here all along.”

Zayn manages a chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry. ‘m a bit of a zombie when I’m tired.”

“It’s okay.” The guy grins now, and he has dimples deep in his cheek, and oh shit Zayn is too tired to stand against that. “It’s pretty cute. I’m happy to be your laundry fairy.” He glances down, then back up. “You going to go back upstairs while your clothes are in?”

Zayn hadn’t thought that far ahead, but if he had he probably would have wanted to. He could get in a catnap. But… “Not if you’re going to disappear when I do,” he answers, more honestly than he would have during daylight. “Can’t lose my laundry fairy now I’ve found him.”

The guy fucking beams, and he looks like a kid on Christmas morning, and it’s too much for Zayn to deal with. “Don’t worry,” The guy says cheerily. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “I won’t let you get away.”


	22. Chapter 22

_**Prompt: "accidentally fell in your lap while standing on this crowded bus" au** _

Harry doesn’t mind public transportation, really. He likes it—likes how he doesn’t have to drive, how he can just put in his earbuds and listen to music and not care about anything. Likes how he can people-watch.

Of course, usually this applies to trains that are not packed shoulder to shoulder and he can hardly breathe. But even then, it’s not so bad. The people watching is better. The people watching is especially good when the person who happens to be sitting in front of you, so you can’t help but stare at him, is one of the most beautiful people Harry’s ever seen, and is reading so he doesn’t seem to notice how Harry’s staring at him. 

He’s just…really, really beautiful. And Harry hangs out with models sometimes, he knows beautiful. _And_ no one should look good in the subway, it’s like a rule. But this guy is somehow managing it, all sharp bone structure and broad shoulder and thick hair and tattoos sneaking out from under the cuff of his shirt, which probably means he has more under it. It’s not like Harry’d do anything about it, obviously; he isn’t one of those creeps who intrude on what is very clearly this guy’s personal time by hitting on him, no matter how pretty he is. But it’s a nice way to pass the time, speculating on what might be under his dark plaid button-down while Arctic Monkey sounds in his ears, the subway car rattling down the track.

Then there’s a grumbling around, and the subway screeches to an abrupt stop. Harry’s so intent on trying to figure out what the pattern is on his wrist that his grip on the rail must have loosened, or maybe it’s just what Liam sometimes calls his incapability to stay upright, but whatever the reason, he’s not steady enough on his feet for this, and while most people just sway a bit, he goes flying.

Flying, here, means tumbling. And tumbling means he stumbles, loses his balance, and falls gracelessly into the pretty guy’s lap, knocking his book out of his hands.

“Shit!” Harry curses. He can feel himself turning red even as he scrambles back to his feet. The guy is looking at him now, and his eyes are this light hazel that’s not what Harry was expecting but is also really hot, and he just fell into his lap and—“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, that was—I’m really sorry!”

He’s expecting anger, because this guy for all he’s pretty looks pretty intense, and also because New Yorkers and subways. At the very least, he’s expecting a glare. But instead, the guy’s lips quirk into a wry smile. God. He can’t be lovely and have a good sense of humor too, Harry’s going to complain to someone. “Nah, ‘s fine,” he says. His voice is a bit rough, with a hint of an accent. “Someone had to break your fall.” He glances up at Harry, and if Harry’s not wrong, there’s a bit of interest in that look. Which, okay. Maybe he’s not complaining.

“The trains are out to get me,” He agrees cheerfully, and tugs out his earbuds. The other people around them are giving them weird looks, but he really couldn’t care less. “I always make sure to position myself near cushiony looking people.” He gives the guy a pretty obvious checking-out scan, just in case his interest isn’t apparent.

“Not sure anyone’s ever called me cushiony before,” the guy muses. The corners of his eyes are crinkling with the smile in them.

“Well,” Harry gives his best charming smile. “Not exactly why I positioned myself near you.”

“Yeah?” The guy’s smirking too, and Harry is writing the universe a very nice thank you note. “I’m Zayn.”

“Harry.” Harry makes to offer him a hand, but he’s using both to hang on now. “Sorry, I would—”

“Can’t have you falling again,” Zayn agrees. He’s closed his book, and is holding it between two very capable looking hands.

Harry grins. “Well, it turned out pretty well last time.”


	23. Chapter 23

_**Prompt: having a row and breaking up for like 5 seconds in the heat of the moment** _

It’s the worst moment of Zayn’s life, the beat of silence after Harry says, “Well maybe we should just break up then!”

“Really?” He asks, and he can hear his voice break, and hates it, because it’s not like he was wrong, but… “Do you–I mean, you you actually want to break up?”

“What? No!” Then Harry’s throwing himself at him, peppering kisses over his jaw and grabbing at him like he’s worried Zayn will leave, like he thinks Zayn is capable of leaving, “No, no, don’t go, never.”


	24. Chapter 24

_**Prompt:** _ _**It’s not a thing, how Zayn likes to play with Harry’s hair. He can break the habit any time he wants. Really. Any time.** _

“So, the hair,” the interviewer asks. Zayn’s barely even paying attention, if he’s being honest; this interview’s kind of a joke, and Harry and Niall are carrying it well enough. No one actually expects him to talk during interviews. His job, as Harry’s said before, is to look pretty, which he can do without really listening. “How long are we going?”

Niall snorts, and Harry chuckles amiably. Zayn zones back in. Really? This is what they’re being asked?

“I think I might go for your length,” Harry jokes, shaking back his curls without any self-consciousness and grinning that dimpling, charming grin. The stage lights catch in his hair, turning the curls into plays of shadow and light and color, and Zayn’s too busy making sure he isn’t actually high for thinking that’s some sort of symbolism for Harry himself to stop himself from saying,

“Think it’d look good on you.”

He hears himself say it as he does, and grins like it’s a joke, like he’s playing around, because he knows it’s what’s expected. Niall, because he’s wonderful, guffaws immediately; the interviewer smiles politely and picks it up, volleying the banter back to Harry, and Zayn almost breathes a sigh of relief.

But then he glances over at Harry, once he’s finished talking to the interviewer about her blouse, and Harry’s looking at him. He meets Zayn’s gaze with the sort of firmness he only uses when he wants people to know he’s thinking about them, then smiles, the small tentative thing he does when he’s not sure what people want to hear, and Zayn knows. Knows Harry knows.

Okay, he can deal with this.

—

It’s not, like, a thing or anything. Or it is, but only because it’s a thing Zayn’s always done, ever since he was a kid. He’s a fiddly person, needs to do things with his hands; sometimes, when he was sitting with his sisters, it meant he’d idly start twisting the ends of their hair between his fingers, just for something to do. And then he was older, and his mum would be busy trying to get four kids off to school, and somehow he was the one put on the duty of braiding Safaa’s hair. So it’s habit, more than anything. Habit. Not a thing.

Because Harry’s hair is long, and lovely, and Zayn’s always been a bit envious of it. And because he and Harry’s relationship is half built on cuddling and sharing space, on couches and buses and sometimes on stage. So it was only natural—inevitable, really—that Zayn get into the habit of playing with Harry’s hair, like he did with his sisters’. It was comfortable, easy. It felt like home, and it felt like anchoring, and it felt like Harry, all at once, and that was everything Zayn wanted.

And maybe—just maybe—it was other things too. Maybe it was the feeling when his fingers were tangled in Harry’s curls like he could tighten his grip and Harry would stay, wouldn’t get up and flit away to LA or wherever else was more interesting than him. Maybe it was a bit of wondering what noises Harry would make if he pulled a little, if he used the grip in Harry’s hair to tilt his head up for a kiss. Maybe it was that Harry does look so good on stage, with his hair swinging around his face like it’s caught his energy.

Mostly, though, Zayn’s sure, it’s just habit, and comfort for him, and he hadn’t even thought Harry had noticed how whenever Harry was near him his fingers would find his way to the ends of his hair to start twining them around his fingers. 

But okay, Harry knows. Harry isn’t entirely pleased by it. Zayn can deal with that. It’s just a habit, and Zayn can break habits, he’s almost quit smoking after all. Sort of. He can just—not. Not annoy Harry with his own thing.

So he doesn’t tug on Harry’s curls when he’s teasing him during sound check the next day. He hugs Harry around his shoulders on the bus when he comes over to make Zayn listen to whatever new band he’s found, but he keeps his hand firmly against Harry’s shirt. He tries not to look, when Harry shakes his head on stage like he’s head banging and his hair flies back and forth, thick and long and almost a veil around Harry’s wild grin. Maybe he drums his fingers more, maybe he smokes another cigarette or two, but it’s what happens when you’re breaking a habit. Especially a habit like Harry, who sneaks under Zayn’s skin and sticks there, all dimples and ridiculousness and his way of making Zayn relax and get out of his head. But no matter how enticing that habit is, Zayn can break it. He has to.

—

A week or so after the interview, Zayn’s on his bed vaguely trying to read a book and debating whether or not to go bug Louis into playing a video game with him, when there’s a knock on his door. Zayn seriously considers ignoring it, pretending he’s asleep, but in the end his mum’s chiding wins out and he heaves himself up off the bed to answer it. He glances out the peephole first, because he’s been scarred before by crazy fans—but he recognizes the chestnut curls and slouched shoulders, and is smiling when he opens the door.

He stops smiling the instant he does, because Harry isn’t. He hasn’t got his really upset face on, the one where he’s visibly holding back tears and looks about five and makes Zayn want to kill anyone who’s upset him, but his shoulders are sagging and the smile he gives Zayn is half-hearted at best.

“Hey.” Even his voice sounds downtrodden. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Zayn steps aside to let him in. Harry doesn’t move, even after Zayn’s closed the door behind him, so he heads back to the bed to sit down against the headboard. Sometimes Harry needs to move to get his upset out; sometimes he needs to talk; sometimes he needs just to cuddle. Zayn can do any of them.

Harry stands still for another moment, his eyebrows drawn together like he’s considering something, then he seems to make up his mind, as he throws himself onto the bed next to Zayn, tucking his head into his shoulder and throwing his knees over Zayn’s. Zayn instinctively wraps an arm around his shoulders to bring him in closer, then wraps his fingers lightly around the shoulder itself so he doesn’t give into temptation and start petting through Harry’s hair.

“Okay?” Zayn asks, once Harry’s settled. Harry’ll answer or not, whichever he needs. He knows Zayn doesn’t need him to answer.

Harry says something into Zayn’s chest. Zayn hums questioningly, and Harry turns his head so his mouth isn’t buried anymore. “Not really.”

“Shocking.”

Harry lets out a shaky, tentative laugh, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Not for the first time, Zayn wishes he had Niall’s genius for cheering people up, or Harry’s for making them smile. “I just, there was this review, for the show last night. Called me the weakest link—like, insipid, was the word. Shallow. Silly.”

“Oh, babe.” Zayn squeezes him into his chest. “You’re none of that. Well, silly. But in a good way.”

“And of course it said I was going to break up the band to go solo.” He glances up at Zayn, his eyes wide and pleading. “You know I’m not, right? I’d never.”

“We know.” A lock of hair’s fallen into Harry’s face. It’s not against the rules to brush it away, Zayn figures, so he does, tucking it firmly behind Harry’s ear. Harry doesn’t say anything, anyway, just tilts his head a little so it’s easier for Zayn, so it probably is okay. “We know, Haz. Those reviews are all crap anyway. As long as people are buying tickets, who gives a fuck?”

“I know.” He does, too, Zayn knows. He’s gotten so much better at not taking those sorts of things to heart. But they still get him sometimes, when he’s vulnerable or surprised. “Just, I love you, you know?” Zayn’s heart stops beating for a second. “I love all of you.” It starts again, if a bit slower. “I don’t want you to think I don’t.”

“We don’t,” Zayn agrees. “Don’t worry, we know. I’ll, like, make Liam punch anyone who says otherwise.” It gets another laugh out of Harry. “Better?”

Harry pauses, and Zayn bites his lip. He’d thought he’d been doing well, calming Harry down. He might not have Niall’s sunshine, or—

Harry looks at Zayn again, green eyes bambi-big. “Can you…” He trails off.

Zayn waits, but when it looks like he might not pick up, Zayn prompts him, “Can I what?”

Harry’s gaze darts away from his face. “Like, I know it makes you uncomfortable how much I like it, and ‘m sorry, and I respect your decision not to because you shouldn’t have to deal with it, but—”

“Hazza.”

Harry takes a deep breath, sets his jaw, and looks at Zayn again. “Can you play with my hair a bit? I’m sorry,” he says all in a rush, as Zayn’s breath catches. “Like, I wouldn’t ask, and I know you think it’s weird, but it makes me feel—”

“Thought you were weirded out by it,” Zayn interrupts him.

“What?” Harry draws back, and gives him his best confused look. “Why?” He shakes his head before Zayn can answer. “I like it. It makes me feel…” his face twists as he thinks of the word. “Grounded. But you don’t have to if it’s weird, I—”

He cuts himself off when Zayn runs a hand over his hair, his head arching back a bit into it. “Thanks.”

“Didn’t mean to, like…” Zayn doesn’t know quite how to phrase it, but Harry doesn’t seem to need him to finish the sentence. He slides down Zayn’s chest so he’s lying with his head resting on Zayn’s thigh and his hair is spread out over Zayn’s lap, and the smile he gives Zayn is small but real.

Zayn doesn’t know how long they sit there, with Harry’s head in his lap and his fingers carding through Harry’s hair, twisting and curling and petting. He picks his book up at some point; Harry seems content to lie there with his eyes closed as dusk falls outside and spreads into the room.

Some time later, Harry’s eyes blink open, and he picks himself up to look at his watch. “Should probably get dinner soon.”

Zayn thinks he could have stayed here forever, with Harry in their own little valley of calm. But, “Yeah,” he agrees, and slowly draws his fingers away from Harry’s hair. They catch in a snarl, and Harry makes a sharp, displeased noise.

“Sorry.”

Harry shakes out his hair, then glances at himself in the mirror. His hair is a bit of a mess; Zayn hadn’t been paying much attention to what he was doing so it looks like someone had their hands in it. It’s a good look on Harry, in Zayn’s opinion. But by Harry’s face, he doesn’t agree.

Instead, he just gets up and wanders into the bathroom. Zayn’s putting away his book when Harry comes back out with Zayn’s brush. Still without saying anything, he hands it to Zayn, then plops himself down cross-legged on the bed, his back to Zayn.

“Harry?”

Harry doesn’t turn around. “You messed it up, you can fix it.” He says it in that way he has, where it’s like he can make something true just by believing it. It always works on Zayn.

So he shrugs, and starts pulling the brush gently through Harry’s hair, starting at the bottom like he always did with Safaa. Except he’s trying really hard not to think in those sorts of terms, because it’s nothing like with his sisters, not when he’s also looking at the nape of Harry’s neck and thinking how easy it could be just to part the hair around it to kiss at the skin there.

To distract himself, “Are we having a sleepover, then? Should we paint each other’s nails and tell all our darkest secrets?”

“We could.” Zayn doesn’t have to see him to know Harry’s grinning, bright and cheeky. He’s always been able to do that, to bounce back so quickly. “Bet I could steal some polish from Lou. Something pink and sparkly, probably.”

“Over your dead body, Styles.” Zayn tugs on the lock he’s just got detangled. “I want something classy. Blue, maybe. You can have the pink.”

“I will,” Harry agrees, with a laugh. He pauses, then, “And are you gonna tell me your deepest secrets?”

Zayn thinks Harry’s probably the last person he’d tell his darkest secret to, when it involves him so much. “Gotta keep some mystery,” he retorts instead, “How else will we keep the romance alive?”

It doesn’t get the laugh Zayn was expecting, or even the retort. Instead, Harry sighs. “Yeah, thought so.”

“What?” Zayn pauses in his brushing to lean over so he can see at least Harry’s profile.

“Nothing.” Harry sighs again. Then, “Why aren’t you brushing?” he whines, shaking his hair back. Zayn knows what he’s doing—Harry’s good at deflecting but Zayn’s better at reading Harry—but he lets him have it, laughs instead and goes back to brushing through Harry’s silky curls. He’s basically finished, but he gives himself a few more strokes of the brush, then runs his fingers through it once on his own, because he can, because he doesn’t think Harry will object. He doesn’t, just arches his neck a bit so his hair falls farther down his back.

Zayn almost—almost—thinks of just tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair again, turning him and pressing a kiss to his lips. But not now, he thinks. Not in the dusky room with the calm all around them.

So instead he lets his hand fall to the bed, then rolls off the bed himself, twisting his back to loosen the muscles. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, I’ll change, you want to see if anyone else wants to go?” Harry gets up too, unfolding himself to all his lanky height.

“Sure.” Zayn walks with Harry to the door, but Harry stops right before Zayn can open it, turns to look at Zayn. His eyes are big and open, and his hair twines around his face like a frame, and he’s got those dimples deep in his cheeks.

“Thanks, you know. For making me feel better.”

“Any time.”

“And for brushing my hair. You’re the best at it. I’m telling Lou I want you the brush my hair before every show.”

“Think she might object.”

“I’ll get her to agree.” Zayn doesn’t doubt it. He hopes Harry isn’t joking, is the thing; hopes he can sit with Harry before a show and let the calm fill him up, so he can carry it onto stage and not let the screams blow him away.

“Bet you will.” Zayn tugs on the curl next to Harry’s face to punctuate it, and Harry grins again, deeper, pleased and unrepentant. It’s one of Zayn’s favorite looks on Harry.

Then the smile shifts, goes softer. “But really, thanks.”

“Told you, no problem.” None at all. The opposite, more like.

Harry shakes his head. “You keep me sane, you know?” He bites his lip, for a second, then leans in and brushes a kiss to Zayn’s lips, feather-light. When he pulls back, he looks nervous and happy and pleading all in one, and Zayn doesn’t know what to say. “I’ll see you in a bit,” Harry says, and then he’s out the door.

Zayn watches the door swing shut behind him, resisting the urge to press a hand to his lips. Instead, he turns slowly back to the bed, picks up the brush. Some of Harry’s hair’s stuck in the tines, twined together with the shorter bits of Zayn’s darker hair.

Maybe they both have some darkest secrets to share. 


	25. Chapter 25

_**Prompt: "Are you fucking kidding me ?"** _

Zayn blinks. The room doesn’t in fact change. It’s a mess, and Harry’s room is usually pretty neat, but it’s a whirlwind right now, like all his clothes are on the floor and all his books are on his bed and Zayn had just wanted to come to Harry’s to collapse before he had to go to class, and now he couldn’t, because Harry’s couch was not a good sleeping couch.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he mutters. He could, maybe, clear off a corner of the bed to sleep in. Harry’s bed is the best to sleep in, mainly because it smells of Harry, but it’s also soft and got great sheets and all. Harry sometimes claims that Zayn’s only going out with him for the bed. Zayn only debates the ‘only’.

He’s just managed to move a stack of books to the floor when Harry comes in. “Zayn! Why are you here?”

Great. Zayn rubs at his temples. “I just wanted to grab a nap. I can leave—”

“No!” Harry’s in his space immediately, pulling him into a hug. As always, it makes Zayn feel better, the way Harry pulls him in and holds him tight. “No, don’t leave. I just—I wanted to be done before I showed you. It was going to be a surprise.”

“That your room’s a mess?”

“No, that was going to be cleaned up.” Harry makes a face at the room, then lets go of Zayn to cross over to his dresser, picking his way between piles of clothes. “I was doing it, then I realized for it to work I had to rearrange everything, and I figured I should do stuff with the bookshelf too because it’s you, so…” He trails off, then pulls open the bottom drawer of the dresser with a flourish.

It’s empty.

“You cleaned out your dresser?”

Harry huffs out a breath. “I cleaned out the drawer.” When Zayn just keeps on giving him a blank look, Harry rolls his eyes. “For you! It’s a drawer, for you.”

“Oh.” Zayn doesn’t know what to say. He wasn’t—he had just come over for a nap because it was closer than his. He hadn’t expected—this.

“I mean, I was just thinking, because you’re here all the time and it’s closer to campus and as much as I love you in my clothes I like you in your clothes too so you could bring some here, and there’s room for your books too if you wanted, and I could make space for whatever else you wanted too?” Harry smiles at Zayn, almost plaintive. Almost nervous, as if he weren’t sure of it’s reception.

Zayn still doesn’t know what to say. It’s such a Harry thing to do, this little thing that somehow becomes a declaration of love and commitment and constancy, and Zayn can’t do anything but go over and hug him back, try to tell him how much it means with the strength of his squeeze, then he pulls back and kisses him, tries to tell him that way how much he loves it, how much he loves Harry.

Harry’s grinning when they break apart, that smug thing that he gets when he did something he knows was right that always makes Zayn want to kiss him more. “You like it?”

“You could say that.” A nap’s overrated, Zayn decides, and pushes books out of the way to tug Harry down onto the bed to show him how much he likes it.


	26. Chapter 26

_**Prompt: "You forgot to say the magic word."** _

“Let me have it, Zayn!”

“Nope.”

“But it’s a present, I want it!” Zayn rattled the brightly wrapped box out of Harry’s reach even though Harry was mostly crawled on top of him in an attempt to get it, and Harry pouted. It wasn’t fair. It was his, Zayn had told him it was for him as an early Christmas present because Zayn had to go home for Christmas and Harry really, really, really couldn’t get away from work no matter how much he tried, so Zayn should stop being an asshole and give it to him. 

“You should be patient.”

“I’m not! Zayn, give me my present.” It wasn’t big, but it was too big to be a CD, and too small to be anything really substantial; more the size of maybe a thick book. Zayn was great at presents when he tried to be, which he did with Harry; last year he had gotten Harry tickets to the Ed Sheeran concert that was totally sold out and he still wouldn’t tell Harry how he did it. When they’d just started going out, back in uni, he’d gotten Harry the exact book he’d been looking for for a month that he hadn’t even thought he’d told Zayn about. He really wants this present. “Come on!”

Zayn grinned. “You forgot to say the magic word.”

Harry’d never been above begging. “Please, Zayn?”

The look on Zayn’s face is…odd, as he hands the box over. It’s not just the anticipation he usually gets when he’s giving presents. But Harry only has a second to think about it before he’s snatching it from Zayn and going back to his side of the couch to open it.

He carefully unfolded the silver wrapping paper. It was a nondescript brown box, nothing to write home about, so Harry narrowed his eyes at it and opened it. There was another box inside, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Zayn,” he muttered, before he opened that box. There was another box inside it. Then another. Zayn could be such an asshole, he was lucky Harry loved him.

The next box was square and small, and Harry was starting to wonder if maybe this was all a hoax and there was nothing in it at all and Zayn was actually going to give him something too big to fit into the box, when he flipped open that box—and his mouth dropped.

“Zayn,” he said again, breathless. The diamond shimmered against the brown cardboard, bright and sparkling and undeniably there, a single solitaire set into a gold band.  

He looked up, but Zayn wasn’t on the couch—Zayn was on the floor, on one knee. “Zayn,” he said again, and blinked back the urge to cry. Zayn was smiling, that nervous smile he got when he was happy but terrified.

“I know it’s not big, and if you don’t like it we can, like, exchange it or whatever. And I know you probably wanted a big scene somewhere public, and I was trying to figure out how to do that, but—”

“Thought I was the one who was supposed to ramble?” Harry cut him off. He took the ring out of the box, held it up to the light.

“Right.” Zayn snorted, swallowed. “So? Got any other magic words?”

“Zayn,” Harry said a third time. He could barely get the words out around the pounding of his heart. “Yes, of course, yes.” He grinned, and Zayn was grinning back, and he had to launch himself off the couch onto Zayn, who tumbled backwards laughing as Harry pressed kisses to his face. “Best present ever.”


	27. Chapter 27

_**Prompt: arguing about something and one of them letting it slip out of their mouth that they love the other out of frustration** _

“Fuck you, who are you to tell me I shouldn’t smoke?”

“I don’t know, the man who loves you and doesn’t want you to die!”

There’s a beat of silence, as Zayn stares at Harry and Harry would stare at himself if he could. Then, much quieter,

“Really?”


	28. Chapter 28

_**Prompt: "Can I tell you a secret?"** _

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Harry’s pretty drunk, so his attempt at whispering might not be as good as it would be otherwise, but he’s also pretty drunk, so he doesn’t care. And Zayn doesn’t care either, because he’s Zayn and he’s wonderful and pretty and the best and he lets Harry sit on his lap when he’s drunk and doesn’t feel like sitting on a chair so basically he’s everything Harry’d ever want.

Also, because he just laughs at Harry, and not even in a mean way, just in a way that makes it seem like Harry’s really funny, which is good because Harry is funny most people just don’t notice. Zayn does though. Harry bites at his neck in thanks. It tastes like sweat and salt but Harry likes to think it tastes like Zayn.

“Sure.”

“What?”

“You wanted to know if you could tell me a secret.”

“Oh, right.” Zayn also reminds him of things when he’s drunk and forgetful. He gets a bite for that too, and a lick. There are goosebumps on his bare skin now, all the places where his tank top doesn’t cover, so Harry very helpfully snuggles closer. He feels pretty warm, he has plenty of body heat to share. “Can I?”

“Said yeah, babe.”

“Right!” Harry grins at him. Zayn’s smiling down at him, too, and he’s got the look Harry likes best, where his tongue’s up against his teeth when he’s smiling and his eyes crinkle and he looks at Harry like he’s as funny and great as he knows he is usually. “I have a secret.”

“So you’ve said.”

Harry sticks out his lower lip. “Are you making fun of me?” He does that sometimes. Harry would say it makes him less wonderful, except sometimes it’s pretty funny and sometimes Harry needs it and when it is mean he always apologizes and usually will do something nice for Harry back.

“Never, babe. What’s your secret?”

Harry grins into Zayn’s neck. He should probably bite at it again, just in case. Of something. It’s probably important he bite it anyway.

“Babe?” Zayn prompts. He sounds a little choked, which isn’t good. Harry inspects his neck very thoroughly, but it looks just as lovely and elegant and veiny as usual, even when Harry licks it to check if it still tastes the same. It does.

“Right! The secret.” Harry lifts his head up a bit so he can whisper it to Zayn, because secrets are supposed to be whispered. He should probably check to make sure his ear is working right first, so he licks it too. It seems to be okay. “My secret.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the prettiest person in the room tonight.” Harry pauses. “Wait, no. That’s not a secret.”

“Oh?” Zayn is sounding choked again. Harry bites at his earlobe, but nothing’s wrong there. He kisses his neck again, just in case.

“No. Everyone knows that.” Harry hums. “No. My secret’s about me.”

“Oh?” Zayn really doesn’t have much of a vocabulary tonight. It’s okay. Usually he has enough vocabulary for all of them.

“Right!” Harry is so triumphant he remembered his secret that he kisses Zayn’s cheekbone. “I remember.”

“And?”

“It is about me.”

“So you’ve said.”

Harry leans in close. It’s important you get as much skin contact as possible when telling a secret, he’s always thought. “I’d let you fuck me. Let you do anything to me. Do anything to you.” He nods, satisfied. “That’s the secret.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything for a long moment, so Harry has to go back to his neck to make sure his throat is working. Nothing seems to be wrong there, but he still nips at it again, because he likes to.

Finally, “Yeah?” Zayn asks. He has that same sound, but Harry’s checked his throat. So Harry lifts up his head to look at Zayn. He’s still smiling at Harry, even if his eyes aren’t quite as happy. Harry should really check for other problems, if it’s not his neck.

Lips, he decides. He should check them. So he presses his lips to Zayn’s, and no, no, he’s pretty sure they’re in working order too.


	29. Chapter 29

_**Prompt: Harry making Zayn blush** _

“Look, look at this one!” Harry grabs Zayn’s wrist with one hand and his friend–some socialite or another, Zayn wasn’t too nervous to really pay attention when Harry told him–with the other, dragging her over to the painting, “Zayn did this one too, isn’t it great!”

“Lovely,” she agrees evenly, in a tone of voice that Zayn thinks means she’s just humoring Harry.

Harry nods, firmly. “It’s the best here,” he tells her, “I think it might be the best anywhere, but I’m not sure I’m qualified to judge.”

He’s wrong, and Zayn knows it, and she knows it, but Zayn still ducks his head into Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s praise has always meant more than some stranger’s anyway.


	30. Chapter 30

_**Prompt: Zayn stealing Harry's gum from his mouth** _

The gum is louder than it probably should be. The bus is big, after all, and even if it’s only Zayn and Harry still awake, after all the others went back to the bus, there’s still enough space between the couch where Harry’s sprawling and the chair Zayn’s curled up in  that it shouldn’t annoy Zayn. Usually, it wouldn’t. Usually, he’d be able to immerse himself in his book, absorb himself so far in it that it’d take Louis dumping water over his head to get him out of it. (Which only happened once, but once is enough).

But tonight…maybe it’s because it’s late and Zayn is too jet-lagged to sleep, which he hates. Maybe it’s because Harry’s taking up the whole couch with just his boxers on, so there’s all sorts of ink and tanned skin to see. Maybe it’s because Harry looks so content, his eyes closed and his hair pulled back by a scarf as he listens to music. It’s not fair. Zayn’s supposed to be the one falling asleep while other people can’t sleep. Why does Harry get to look so content, when his teeth chomping on the gum is ringing in Zayn’s ears?

Finally, Zayn gives up, grabs a pillow from the floor, and throws it across the room. He’s never had the best aim, but Harry’s not a small target, so he manages to hit his stomach. Harry jumps, his eyes flying open and his arms going everywhere. It’s almost amusing enough to make up for the fucking gum.

“Hey,” Harry whines, when he’s gotten himself back together. He pulls out his ear buds and drags himself up a little so he can look at Zayn, his lip jutting out. “What’s that for?”

“Your fucking gum,” Zayn informs him.

Harry just gives him an unimpressed look. It being Harry, it comes out more as vaguely peevish than actually displeased. “What about it?”

“It’s loud.” Harry just keeps looking at him, like he’s expecting more. Like he isn’t sometimes the biggest diva out of all of them, about where to eat and where to sit and how he wants his things arranged. Zayn’s not a diva. Zayn doesn’t like to make a fuss. He just—“It’s really loud, and I can’t concentrate!”

“Oh?” For some reason, that gets Harry to grin. He unfolds himself from the couch, dropping his ipod on the table and walks over to Zayn. “Am I making it hard for you to concentrate, Zayn?”

“Your gum is.” It’s hard to look away from Harry when he’s like this, all skin and knowing eyes and swaying hips, those laurels diving underneath the edge of his bright blue boxers like arrows. Zayn very consciously makes sure he’s looking at his face, but that’s not much better. His lips are wet from chewing, pink and full and curved into a grin that’s more a smirk than anything.

“That all?” Without any self-consciousness, Harry swings himself into Zayn’s lap, so he’s got a knee on either side of Zayn’s hips. It’s not necessarily an unusual thing for Zayn to have Harry in his lap; his hands instinctively go to Harry’s hips to steady him. Harry’s grin widens at the brush of skin against his.

“It’s loud,” Zayn retorts. This wasn’t how he thought this game would end, this tension that always blazes between them, but he can play it. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to chew gum?”

“Didn’t know I had to be polite around you.” Harry’s tongue flicks out, tracing his lips, and Zayn can’t help but follow the motion with his eyes. “Didn’t know you wanted me to be.”

“Well, it’s annoying,” Zayn insists. He digs his fingers in, just a bit, just to show Harry he isn’t winning all the time. It gets Harry to squirm, but then it backfires, because it means instead of just having Harry in his lap he has a squirming Harry in his lap, and that’s even worse. “You should stop.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s just smirking now, and he’s not squirming because of Zayn’s hands anymore, Zayn knows. He opens his mouth, so Zayn can see the gum inside—it’d be gross, if it wasn’t not even close to the grosses thing Zayn’s seen on the bus—then biting down, loudly. “Make me.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows. Harry grins, and chews again, even louder. He’s heavy on Zayn’s waist, and he’s got his most knowing look on behind his disarming dimples. He thinks he’s winning.

Zayn doesn’t want to let him win. Zayn wants to play the game. Zayn really wants him to stop bloody chewing his gum.

So he leans forward, and before Harry can move presses their lips together. Harry’s still for a second, surprised, Zayn knows, that he took the challenge at last, then he’s pressing back, just as hard. Zayn nips at his lip and Harry opens his mouth easily, lets Zayn slide his tongue into his mouth. Zayn lingers for a second, as Harry moans shamelessly into the kiss—then pulls back.

Harry blinks. His eyes are huge, and the knowing look’s a bit gone, subsumed by shock and arousal. He looks well-kissed. Zayn thinks he’d look better better-kissed. But that’s not how the game works, he knows. Not this time.

So gently but firmly, he slips out from under Harry. Harry’s still just looking at him, but he’s more confused now than anything.

“I said,” Zayn says at last, once he’s the one standing and Harry’s sitting. He takes an exaggerated chew of the gum in his mouth now, loud enough that he knows Harry’s heard it, from the way his eyes widen even more. “You should stop.”

Harry’s sudden shout of laughter chases him out the door. Zayn smiles to himself as he chews idly on the gum. He really likes this game.


	31. Chapter 31

_**Prompt: "Where the fuck did that clown come from?"** _

It’s not…a typical date, Zayn can concede. Definitely not dinner and a movie. It’s not something he expected, maybe, and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about the whole carnival thing—he’s not exactly told Harry how he doesn’t do well with heights, or speed, or clowns, or anything scary at all. He’d kind of hoped to keep that on the down low. But Harry’s so excited, dragging Zayn here and there and buying them cotton candy to share that Zayn can’t exactly be mad, or say anything.

He goes on rides and hopes Harry doesn’t notice how he’s clutching the sides of the cars, plays and fails at some games, then laughs as Harry fails just as badly. He does manage to win Harry a medium sized panda, which Harry tucks proudly under his arm as they wander.

Finally, as dusk starts to fall, Harry grabs Zayn’s wrist and tugs him into an alley between the tents.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at Zayn. The fading sunlight catches in his hair, his skin, turning his dimples into shadows. “You have fun?”

“Yeah!” Zayn nods.

“Because I know this wasn’t—like, I know the rides weren’t exactly your thing, and I didn’t mean to force you on—”

“Harry.” Zayn takes Harry’s face in both his hands, draws him down to kiss him slowly and thoroughly, tasting cotton candy on his lips. He pulls away just as slowly. “I had fun.”

“Bet we could have more.” Harry moves closer, cages Zayn’s hips with his hands.

“Bet we cou—holy shit!” A clown pops up behind Harry’s back, making a face, and Zayn stumbles backwards and brings Harry with him, so they topple to the ground in a pile of limbs and swearing and panda and the clown laughing at them from above them.

“What the hell?” Harry yelps.

Zayn stares over him. “Where the fuck did that clown come from?”

“What?”

“The clown!” Zayn gestures behind Harry’s head, and narrowly misses hitting Harry with it. “It was—” But Harry’s started shaking, and his head buried in Zayn’s shoulder. “Babe, are you ok—”

Harry lifts his head. His face is nearly split in two with his grin, with the laughter he can’t contain. “A clown!” he laughs. The vibrations run up Zayn’s legs. “A fucking clown, it’s, of course!”

And Zayn can’t help it, not when Harry’s laughing and a fucking clown cockblocked them and the sky is purple with the setting sun, and he starts giggling too, until they’re just a mess of laughter and mirth and maybe the clown did its fucking job after all.


	32. Chapter 32

_**Prompt: we fucked once and somehow keep bumping into each other AU** _

The door to the café rung as it opened. Harry didn’t even really notice it, because he was busy telling Niall about the blow-up at work on Thursday and he didn’t notice every time someone came into the café—but then he happened to look up, and saw who had come in, and interrupted himself to swear and duck his head. 

“What?”

“Don’t look!” Harry grabbed Niall’s collar to turn him away. “Don’t make him look!”

“Who?” Niall, of course, looked. He scanned the café, then his gaze settled on the man ordering at the counter. He was casual today, jeans and a t-shirt with a denim jacket on over it, and he was still hot. At least Harry knew how to choose them. “Him? Why?”

Harry groaned. If Niall kept looking he would notice. “That’s Zayn.”

“Zayn!” Niall repeated loudly. Harry shushed him frantically. A bit quieter, Niall asked, “You mean, that guy you hooked up with a few weeks ago? The really hot one?”

“Yes!” Harry hissed, “And this is like the fifth time we’ve run into each other since then.”

“Really?” Niall was studying him again, as he accepted his drink from the barista. “What do you say?”

“Nothing smooth.” The problem, really, is that Harry would very much like to say ‘would you like to do that again, preferably repeatedly?’ but Zayn has so far given no indication Harry can see that he would also like that. “So I’d like—shit.” Zayn had turned around, and Harry hadn’t looked away fast enough, and now Zayn was smiling a bit in greeting and it was really attractive and Harry couldn’t help grin back.

“Okay, be cool,” he told Niall as Zayn wandered over. Maybe this time he’d be able to not sound like an idiot. Maybe this time he’d manage to convince Zayn they should probably have a repeat. Maybe this time…


	33. Chapter 33

_**Prompt: Give me something dramatic, a fight in the rain or something equally ridiculous!** _

Harry is drunk. Not drunk in a good way, in a happy way, where he runs around and jumps on people and kisses them and laughs and is generally the life of the party, but in the bad way. The way where you can feel the alcohol settling in your stomach and turning your brain around so your bad mood just gets worse, but you can’t stop either, just keep spiraling down.

He hadn’t been in this mood when he got here, he thinks. He can’t know anymore, but he’s pretty sure he had been fine, as they all ran in with the storm right on their heels. Zayn had been pressed against Harry as he herded him in the door, laughing in his ear, and Harry’s almost certain he had laughed back.

But now he’s in a bad mood, sipping angrily at his bananatini at a booth as he glares at the bar. It’s a lot of things. But mainly it’s Zayn standing there looking all hot and devastating all in black, with his leather jacket and his whole—face. His whole not caring face, like he could just send all those looks at the bartender and that guy at the end of the bar and the girl coming up beside him for a drink. Like he had just forgotten last night, even though Harry had thought—well, had hoped—well, no, had thought, because Harry was eternally an optimist, and he might not have known how much he had needed to kiss Zayn, tipsy and laughing, but now he knew and he had thought he might get to again. Might get to do everything again, because he thought it at least merited maybe talking about. Not Zayn running away before Harry woke up, which Harry knew was on purpose because Zayn never, ever woke up before him and he had been planning to make them breakfast. 

But apparently Zayn hadn’t even thought it was worth talking about, because he hadn’t even looked at Harry all day until they had met up to go out, and even then barely at all, splitting off as soon as they got here to go to the bar and flirt with everyone, it seemed like. Except for Harry. Because Harry was good enough to fuck but not good enough to actually be mature about with like a normal human being and a friend, and fuck him, really!

Yes, Harry decides, and gets to his feet, fuck him. He’s a little shaky, but he’s more or less mobile, as he strides across the bar. Zayn turns around before he gets to him, like he heard him, and his eyes widen then narrow, a little.

“You okay?” he asks. It’s the first thing he’s said to Harry all day, so Harry shoves at his chest, hard enough to push him back into the bar.

“Fuck you,” he tells him. Then he turns around to go to the door, before he sees Zayn’s eyes narrow even more, and not in concern this time. He needs to get away. He can probably stay at Nick’s tonight, where he won’t have to see his bed that Zayn had snuck out of.

It’s only once he gets outside that he notices it’s raining. Like, really raining. But he needs to go and it’s only rain and maybe he’s drenched before he takes three steps, whatever.

Then there’s a hand on his wrist and Harry doesn’t know what it says about him that he knows whose it is before he even turns around.

“What the hell, Harry?” Zayn snaps. He’s drenched too, but Harry’s drowned rat drenched, and Zayn’s model drenched. He even manages to make the beanie he’s pulled on look hot. It’s not fair. It’s not fair how now Harry’s noticing that Zayn being hot means he wants to fuck him.

“What the hell to you too,” Harry retorts, and tries to yank his wrist away. Even with the water coating his skin, he can’t get it out.

“No, like, the fuck? What was that?” Zayn demands. The rain’s caught on his eyelashes and is sparkling on them like stars.

“I’m mad!” Harry snaps back. He thinks it’s pretty obvious. “I’m mad at you.”

“Yeah, I got that, thanks. But the fuck did I do?”

Harry blinks. The rain is obscuring his vision, he thinks, but Zayn doesn’t look like he’s kidding.

“What did you do?” he echoes. “You left!”

“What?”

“You left me in bed!” The rain is starting to soak into Harry’s bones now, cold as that morning, when he had rolled over and found emptiness where he had thought Zayn would be. “You snuck out!”

“Well excuse me for not wanting your morning after ‘wasn’t it good see you never babe’ pancakes,” Zayn retorts, lightning fast. Despite the rain, his eyes are burning.

“What?” Now it’s Harry’s turn to gape. Or it would be, if opening his mouth didn’t let rain in.

“Thought I’d skip that step.” Zayn shrugs, and tucks a stray speck of hair back into his beanie like a wet cat. “Make it easier on us both.”

“I make good pancakes.”

“Yeah, but, like, I don’t want them.”

“Then what do you want?”

There’s a long, cold minute, as the rain falls around them. Harry’s phone’s probably ruined by now, he thinks idly, and can’t look away from the way Zayn’s brow is furrowing.

“Don’t ask me that,” Zayn says at last. He’s barely loud enough to be heard over the rain.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t want to know the answer.”

“I do.” He always has, even if he never really noticed before.

“No, Harry, you don’t. You kissed me when you were drunk and horny, and I pushed it too far, and then I ran, and I’m sorry for that, really, I am.” He looks up, suddenly, almost fiercely, for all the rain looks like tears on his cheeks, glimmering in the reflected street lamps. “But don’t ask me questions you don’t want the answer to.”

He pushed? Harry doesn’t remember that. Harry remembers a surprised breath, then hands and lips and heat and Zayn all around him, in a way he hadn’t known he needed. He takes a step forward, and pushes the hair out of his face. “What do you want, Zayn?” he repeats.

Zayn makes a low, pained noise. “Harry—”

“That your answer?” _please god please_.

“Harry, stop!” Zayn stumbles back, away from him, his eyes wide. He doesn’t look cool and put together now, model-wet. He looks afraid. “I know you’re mad, but you don’t have to be cruel.”

“Cruel?” Harry pauses. He doesn’t think he’s being cruel. Zayn’s the one who was cruel, Zayn’s the one who left. “You snuck out!”

“Because I couldn’t face your fucking pancakes!” Zayn shoots back, straightening. “I knew what it was, I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t do that, Haz, I’m sorry but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to swallow them.”

“Why are you so obsessed with those pancakes?”

“Because that’s what you give everyone you fuck!” Zayn’s properly shouting now, and the rain is streaming over him, so he’s almost blending into the dark except for how Zayn’s never blended in anywhere a day in his life. “I wanted to pretend I wasn’t just one of them!”

The rain pounds out another heavy moment.

“Zayn—”

“No, fuck.” Zayn’s turning away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck, I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Zayn.” Harry takes another step forward now, another step closer. Zayn doesn’t move away, just looks at him through his eyelashes, droplets still sparkling on the ends. “I wasn’t going to make you pancakes.”

Zayn blinks, tilts his head. “What?”

“I wasn’t going to make you pancakes,” Harry repeats. It’s not technically true, he guesses, because he did have pancake batter and it’s the breakfast food he’s best at, but metaphorically it’s true. “I—you were different. You are different.”

“Don’t joke, Haz.”

“Not joking.” He’s got his hands on Zayn’s forearms now, has some sort of grip on the wet leather. “I’m not, Zayn, I swear I’m not.”

“You’ve never—before—”

“No,” Harry admits. He might have been a bit blind. “But I do now.”

“Harry.” Zayn reaches up, pushes a lock of hair behind Harry’s ear with gentle fingers that leave a wave of heat across Harry’s cheek. “Really?”

“No pancakes,” Harry swears. He’ll have to figure out a new breakfast specialty, he guesses. He thinks Zayn likes waffles. “Never again. Not unless, like, we actually do want non-metaphorical pancakes, or if—”

Then Zayn’s kissing him, and he’s got his hands in Harry’s hair pulling him closer and Harry’s breath is caught between them and it’s hot and fast and hard and the rain is running around them like it can’t even get between them.


	34. Chapter 34

Harry was made for snow, Zayn thinks. Admittedly, he thinks that wherever Harry is, because Harry is one of those people who manage to look at home anywhere—sprawled boneless on the beach in just a pair of too-small swim trunks, screaming his heart out on a stage, all energy and intensity, curled up on the bus in just sweats, eyes hooded and sleepy. Zayn, who has never felt quite at home anywhere outside his house, has always been in awe of that skill. But for right now, the snow. 

Zayn leans against the door of the bus and watches as the boys shriek with laughter in their intense snow-angel making competition (which, by the by, he would totally win if it wasn’t bloody cold out and he hadn’t had to hunt down Liam’s extra gloves and Louis’s spare jumper just to give him enough insulation). Harry’s cheeks are red with the chill over his home-knit scarf, his lanky frame filled out by the down of his jacket that should make him look about eight but somehow, again in that inimitably Harry way, doesn’t. The snow catches in his unstyled curls (no pun intended, Zayn tells the laughing Louis in his brain), bright white against the brown, and when Zayn briefly catches his gaze as he glares at Niall, who accidentally smudged his angel, his eyes are sparkling like the sun off the snow. Which is such a trite metaphor, Zayn deletes it. His eyes are just sparkling, and Zayn is not infatuated enough to think in clichés. It’s not even really a thing, what he and Harry have, just some messing around that has turned into something that might be dating and might have given Zayn some feelings, but that’s—it’s not a thing. It’s just Harry’s sexy in the snow.

But he still just stands there and watches, even though he’s all bundled up, even though he’s already eyed the best pile of snow for the snowball fight he and Louis will inevitably win. And maybe has already stockpiled a few, just in case (he’s expecting a sneak attack in less then five minutes). It’s nice, to sit back and watch his boys play, like he used to watch his little sisters. To feel the love come in and warm him up more than his layers.

“You look…warm,” Harry says cheekily, and Zayn blinks at him. He’s appeared in front of Zayn, grinning so big Zayn would poke a finger into his dimples if he didn’t have gloves on.

“I look like someone who doesn’t want to freeze their arse off,” Zayn retorts. He knows he looks stupid, all wrapped up, but he doesn’t have as much padding as the other boys, even if he’s put on some muscle. He needs more layers.

Harry just keeps grinning, and reaches out to hook a finger in Zayn’s belt loop. “No,” he says lazily, almost thoughtfully, as he drags Zayn the few feet that bring him from inside into outside—and into him, “Just warm.”

But that’s wrong, Zayn thinks, because Harry is the one who’s warm, whose lips taste the same as hot chocolate feels as he presses them against Zayn’s in a lazy, easy kiss. The snow wraps around them like confetti, Harry’s body heat blending into his, and like this, Zayn can almost believe he fits in the snow, at least.  

Then a snowball hits Harry on the side of the head, and he jerks back, making a noise somewhere between a squeak and a yelp. “Hey,” he whines, as Louis laughs manically in the background. “No one said the snowball fight was starting.” 

Zayn pulls back far enough to grin at him, to peck at the pout curling on his lips. Then he steps away from Harry, leans back to where he put his snowballs, and pelts it back at Louis.  

“Traitor!” Louis cries, but Zayn laughs back, knowing full well that he’ll be teaming up with Louis to attack Liam in about thirty seconds..

“All’s fair in love and snowball fights!” Zayn shouts back, and before he can charge off Harry grabs him and wraps his arms around him from behind.

“So which one is this?” he asks, his voice rumbling through him so Zayn thinks he can feel it even through their coats.

Zayn lets himself melt back into him for a second, like the snow that’s melting against the heat of his cheeks. “Both,” he says, quietly. A confession for a snow-lit day and the flakes swirling around them. “Right?”

This time, Harry’s grin is as bright as the sunlight on the snow. “Right,” he agrees, and kisses the snow off Zayn’s lips.


	35. Chapter 35

**_Prompt: bodyguard-medieval au thing._ **

Harry doesn’t remember the first assassination attempt. He wasn’t even three yet, and he has vague memories of hands grabbing him, of swords and fighting, but no more than that. He remembers a bit more of the kidnapping attempt at five, and then he thinks he remembers all of them between ages 5 and 14, though sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between them.  After 14, though, he knows he remembers all of them. Because after 14, Zayn comes.

It’s not because there’s less of them, though the mere presence of a bodyguard does discourage attempts. It’s not even because he’s older, more aware of the danger he’s actually in. If he had to think about it, he’d know it’s because his heart leaps into his throat every time Zayn slips away from his side, silent and sharp-edged, his fingers gliding across Harry’s shoulder in a silent announcement that he’s going to deal with a threat. It’s because it hurts, sometimes, to see the slash of a sword and Zayn’s whine of pain as he steps in front of Harry. And sometimes, almost worse, it’s because Harry can’t look away from Zayn as he’s shoved back, Zayn’s sword flashing silver against the gold of his skin and darkness of his hair and leathers, him moving as sinuously as a cat, easy and sensual, and sometimes his lips are curled into a wild sort of smile. Those times are the worst because Harry knows that Zayn could get hurt, that it’s dangerous, that it’s a serious moment—and he still thinks about it sometimes in his bed at night, closes his eyes and pictures Zayn’s capable hands on him, dragging calloused fingers over his skin.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe there’d be an assassination attempt as Harry slept, and Zayn would burst in and save him. Harry would be sleeping naked, of course, and would get up to thank him, and Zayn would look at him in that burning way he had, like there was fire at his core, and Harry would have to really thank him. Maybe Zayn would be injured—just minorly, it hurts too much to think otherwise—and Harry would have to order him into his bed because moving would be too dangerous, and Harry would wrap a bandage around the wound, and then kiss the wound to make it better. Zayn would look at him in that other way he had, fond and shy, and Harry would take that as the invitation he wanted it to be. Maybe maybe maybe.

Maybe someday he can make Zayn smile like he sees him smiling with the other guards, loose and easy and huge and beautiful enough to hurt. Maybe someday he can be more than a prince to Zayn. Maybe someday he’ll be able to taste the wildness in him when he fights. Maybe someday Harry won’t need Zayn to protect him, and he can stop remembering all the times Zayn saved him, and instead just remember Zayn


	36. Chapter 36

_**Prompt: Harry getting Zayn out of wet leather jacket** _

Zayn hates the rain. He feels like that needs to be noted to someone, even if everyone’s too busy for him to note it to. But the rain is wet and gross and it’s a miracle they weren’t electrocuted, and he had liked this jacket and now it’s ruined, unless Caroline works some intense magic on it. He can’t even get it off, really, even now that he’s at least dried his face off with the towels they were all given once they got offstage.

None of the other boys seem to agree with him, though. Maybe he’s in a mood. Louis’s trying to provoke Liam into a water fight again, and Niall and Harry are laughing as they dry themselves off.

Zayn turns away from them, so he can fumble at the shoulder with cold, stiff fingers. He gets it, he does. They can’t be on stage together, not always. He plays around with Liam and Louis, Harry has been focusing on Niall. Even now, he knows, there are too many people back here for management to keep a lid on. He’s not exactly going over and doing what he wants, which is to push Harry against a wall and kiss the water off his lips, because it’s been too long since they had a chance to be together. Really long, he tells the teasing Louis-voice in his head, actually days because they’ve been so busy and there have been cameras everywhere and they’ve actually been being careful.

But still, it feels like—well, today had felt worse. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the days since he had been able to fall asleep next to Harry, to wake up tangled together, wrapped in his scent and warmth. Maybe it was that Zayn had been stupid and looked up some of their mentions on the internet and seen Narry all over the place. Maybe it was just that when it had started raining he had turned to Harry to see if he was okay, because he ran cold and if Zayn was cold he would be too, and Harry had been looking away. And now he can’t even bend his arms right to get this damn jacket off. It’s ruined anyway, maybe he’ll just rip—

“Hey, Zayn.” All at once there are hands on his shoulders, a warm body behind him. “You okay?”

Zayn sighs, because it’s their phrase—their _always_ he said once, and Harry had made a confused face until Zayn had forced him to watch A Fault In Our Stars—and the mere sound of it relaxes him.

“Yeah.” He lets himself sag back into Harry’s body, just for a second. No one will be able to see. “Just cold.”

“And wet, still.” Harry’s breath feels hot on the back of his head. “You’ll catch a cold, and I can’t sing your parts.”

“Sure you could,” Zayn corrects automatically. “And you’re the one who’ll probably get sick.”

“Not if you take me home and feed me lots of soup.”

Zayn sighs again, because they have promo after this then rehearsal then they’re on the bus and then Harry and Liam are going to a new club. “I wish.”

“Soon.” Harry’s hands run down Zayn’s sleeves, like he’s trying to warm him up through the leather. “Why is this still on? It’ll just keep you cold.”

Zayn bites his lip, but he can’t think of a good way to say it. “Can’t get it off,” he admits. “I think the leather shrunk.”

He can almost hear Harry grin. “I can help with that. I like to help getting your clothes off.” To punctuate it, he bites idly at Zayn’s ear, and Zayn jumps.

“Harry!”

“What? Nothing new.” Harry bites again, then does what Zayn thinks was meant to be a slap on his ass but didn’t get enough leverage. “Let’s get this off.”

His hands come down to the lapels, and together they ease it off one arm, Zayn muttering swear words. “Never gonna make fun of your jeans again,” he promises fervently, once they finally get it over his hand. His shoulders are legitimately sore.

“Sure you will,” Harry argues. “Especially cause I’m not sure I can get out of them now.”

It makes Zayn laugh, like Harry knew it would, and Harry pauses with both his hands on Zayn’s other shoulder, about to take that side off. “You sure you’re okay? You looked grumpy just now.”

“Yeah.”

“Zayn.”

“Yeah,” Zayn repeats. Harry lets out a frustrated breath, like he always does when he thinks Zayn isn’t sharing enough. He’s trying, though. It’s just stupid. He’s just being stupid.

“Tell me, Zaynie. We said we would, that’s the only way we’d deal with this. You promised.”

Another one of their words, that promise. When they were seriously thinking about this, before they talked to management, because they both knew what this would mean and all the lies they would have to tell and all the times they would have to hold themselves back, because Zayn knows he can be jealous and Harry’s the most possessive person ever sometimes, and they both knew it.

But Harry is waiting patiently, because he knows Zayn needs time to gather his thoughts, and his hands are still lingering on Zayn’s shoulder, and Zayn doesn’t have to see his face to know what he looks like, curious and cheeky and lovely, even with his hair wet around his face and his shirt stuck awkwardly to him.

“You were ignoring me on stage,” Zayn mutters at last. “It’s stupid, I know, we decided, and I’m just in a mood. But you weren’t looking at me at all.”

Zayn expects annoyance, because he is being stupid, or maybe mocking. What he doesn’t expect is for Harry to bury his head in the nape of Zayn’s neck, not in a sexy way but in the way he does when he’s unexpectedly embarrassed, and to say something into Zayn’s neck.

“Harry?” he asks.

Harry lifts his head. “Yeah, I know,” he admits. “Couldn’t.”

“What?” He knows it’s unhealthy, but it’s immediate—why couldn’t Harry look at him? What had gone wrong? What—

“No!” Harry says firmly, because he knows how Zayn thinks. He pulls off the sleeve of Zayn’s jacket so it falls on the floor—Caroline is going to kill him—and turns Zayn around, so he’s looking at Harry with Harry’s hands on his shoulder’s still, just now he can actually feel the warmth of them. “It’s just—” He ducks his head again, sheepishly, and Zayn thinks he might actually be blushing.

“Just what?”

“Just you look really hot like that.” It comes out all in a rush, almost too fast for Zayn to parse, but when he does he can’t help but smile.

“What?”

“With the beanie and the jacket and the black,” Harry’s still talking fast, but the blush is gone, and he’s looking right at Zayn now, half an apology half something else. “’s not fair, how are you always so hot?”

“So you were ignoring me…”

Harry glances around, but Louis is staging a convenient attack on the sound techs and everyone is watching, so he moves closer, until they’re all pressed together and he can whisper in Zayn’s ear. “It was either that or do something drastic.”

“Something drastic?” Just like that, Zayn can feel his mood melting away, under Harry’s hands running down to his waist and his thighs pressed into Zayn and Zayn’s own hands sitting comfortably on Harry’s hips. “Sounds fun.”

“Shut up.” Harry pinches at his waist, hard. “Wouldn’t have been when I got on my knees on stage.”

“Dunno, sounds pretty fun to me,” Zayn teases, and Harry bites at his neck this time. The bite and the image of Harry dropping to his knees for him on stage combine to make him swallow back a moan.

Harry knows him well enough, knows the jerk of his body well enough, to know what that means. “You know,” he bites again, his teeth scraping down to Zayn’s collarbone. “Even without the jacket, you still look hot wet.”

Fuck, but Zayn wishes. “Haz, we can’t. There are people.”

Zayn can feel Harry deflate, can see it as he straightens, even if he keeps his hands on Zayn. They’re really lucky the whole band is touchy, honestly, because they’ve never known how to keep their hands off each other. He really doesn’t want to keep his hands of Harry now, with his hair a mess around his face Zayn wants to get his hands in and his eyes still bright with adrenaline and his own shirt sticking to his skin and highlighting all the muscles there, tattoos almost visible beneath them. He knows he isn’t keeping the heat from his gaze, because he’s never been able to, with Harry. He does get why Harry couldn’t look at him, when they both know, or have been told by everyone who knows, how obvious they can be. But Harry’s still slumped, still looking down. Zayn knows the feeling.

“Hey,” Zayn says. He lifts a hand, brushes Harry’s hair out of his face so he can see it. “You okay?”

They’re like magic words, sometimes. Harry lifts his head, and he grins, that flash of dimples and cheekiness and promise that has Zayn worried and excited all at once, at what ridiculousness will be planned next.

“Hey Paul!” Harry calls out. He turns to look away from Zayn, but his hand fists in Zayn’s shirt. “We’ve got a bit of time before we have to leave, yeah?”

“Back to makeup for the interview in twenty minutes,” Paul agrees. He gives them his best long-suffering look, but Harry’s smile is all innocence.

“Zayn and I are cold,” he tells the room, in that Harry way he has that makes it seem like the most reasonable thing in the world, “We’re going to take a quick shower to warm up, that okay?”

“Twenty minutes!” Paul yells, as Niall groans and Harry grabs Zayn’s wrist to pull him away.

The second they’re out of the main area, and no one can see them, Harry pulls Zayn back into him. They still can’t kiss, not private enough, but they’re pressed together again and Harry’s gaze is hot on him.

“There,” he says, snapping at the air next to Zayn’s ear, “There’s another way for me to see you all wet and dripping.”

“Bad line, babe,” Zayn teases.

“Just being literal.” Harry pauses, and his hands tighten on Zayn, like if he let go he would run away. Zayn doesn’t think he could leave if he tried. “This enough? Until we get time?”

“Always.”

“Hey, that one’s not ours,” Harry complains, and Zayn laughs and brushes a kiss over his cheek before he pulls him away again. They only have twenty minutes, and he means to make the best of them.


	37. Chapter 37

_**Prompt: single dad Zayn and next door neighbor Harry** _

It’s not really spying, Harry decides. It’s not spying if it’s not for, like a creepy purpose. So basically, he’s not spying on his new neighbors, because he’s not creepy. He’s just, like, watching. Yeah, watching sounds good—he just happens to be in his backyard mowing the lawn while the new neighbors are back there too, and mowing the lawn is really a boring task (he’s never minded it before) so he might as well look over the fence.

And, like, it’s just such a nice thing to look at. The little boy with his dark hair and messy t-shirt running around on the swingset, climbing up and yelling “baba, look at me!” before sliding down, or making up some game to play as he chases a wildly barking dog in circles, and ‘baba’—the dad, Harry looked up, not because he was creepy, but just because he was curious and informing himself on other cultures and learning languages—sits on the porch with a laptop balanced on his lap and a beer on the table next to him, looking up to laugh whenever the boy asks him too.

And if sometimes Harry’s gaze happens to linger on the dad’s face, when he thinks he can get away with it, well. He’s just really gorgeous, and really sweet with the kid, and also really gorgeous. And Harry’s never seen a woman go over to visit them in the whole week since they’ve moved in, except for the one who was pretty obviously his mom, so it’s a little less creepy that he’s ogling, right?

(Nick says no. Nick calls him a creepy fucker who is basically in Rear Window except minus the murder, which is a stupid reference Harry had to look up and then was wrong anyway because he’s not spying, and what does Nick know he’s never seen the man.)

—

About a two weeks after they move in—the Maliks, someone told someone who told Mrs. Levy who lived two doors down and likes to chat with Harry when he goes past on his morning run, Zayn and Hasan—Harry throws a barbeque. He likes throwing them, had them at least once a month during the summer, just for whoever’s in town and feels like coming by for some beers and burgers and hanging out in his backyard sort of thing. It’s loud and hectic and Harry’s so busy keeping track of people he’s completely taken aback when he feels a nudge at his hip.

“Think you’re getting your chance, mate,” Nick laughs, and jerks his head to where a ball’s rolled into Harry’s year. It’s just a ball, a normal white football like every other ball, so it takes a second for Harry to process before he glances over the fence to see the boy—Hasan gaping for a second before he catches Harry’s eyes. His eyes widen even more, then he turns and runs back into the house. Shit.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry demurs snootily, and goes over to grab the ball before anyone does anything stupid like touch it or harm it or in any way make it unfit for the boy to play with.

It’s barely five minutes later when he hears the doorbell ring through the music in the backyard, and rushes through the house to answer it, shooing Nick away as he goes. It’s none of Nick’s business. And if Nick isn’t there he can’t make fun of how Harry stops to check himself in the hall mirror before he opens the door. He just doesn’t want to scare the neighbors! That’s allowed.

“Hi,” he says as he opens the door—then stops. Because he thought the man was gorgeous from across a yard, but he’s actually even hotter up close. It’s a little overwhelming, the way the eyelashes and the cheekbones and the stubble and the sweep of his hair over his forehead all come together.

“Hi,” the guy says, and fuck even his voice is hot. Harry should have been mowing the lawn in his smallest bathing suit. “I’m Zayn, I just moved in next door?”

“Right, Zayn! I’m Harry.” Harry manages to find his voice, and sticks out his hand. Zayn’s hand has callouses on his fingertips, like he uses them a lot, but is otherwise smooth and warm in his. “Mrs. Levy told me about you.”

“Mrs…?”

“The lady from number 53, with the begonias out front?”

“Oh, right.” Zayn nods, though he still looks a little cautious. “She came by with a casserole last week.”

Damn it. That would have been a great excuse to stop by.

Zayn shakes his head, as if dismissing the memory. “Anyway, this is Hasan,” he gestures down to the boy Harry only now sees wrapped around his leg. He’s not the wild, laughing thing Harry’d seen over the fence; he’s quiet and big eyed, with features Harry now realizes are a lot like his dad’s. “And I think he would like to say something.”

“Oh?” Harry smiles his most inviting smile. “What do you have to say?”

He can see Hasan swallow, but Zayn squeezes his shoulder and the boy gives him a quick, mutinous glance up before he says, all in one breath, “I’m very sorry for interrupting your party by kicking things at it sir may I please have my ball back?”

It’s adorable. Harry was kind of predisposed to be charmed, but now he’s really charmed, and he nods very seriously. “Of course. I put it away so it couldn’t get hurt. One second, let me go get it. Do you want to come in?”

Hasan looks up at his dad again, who shakes his head. “No, don’t want to disturb your party.”

“Not at all!” Harry calls back, then glances out at the beer and raucous laughter of his friends as he picks the ball up from behind the chair where he had stashed it and goes back to the front door. “Well, maybe not for kids,” he allows when he gets back, and hands the ball to Hasan. The boy grins up at him, a huge gap-toothed grin that makes his eyes sparkle, and Harry can’t help but grin back.

Then he looks back up at Zayn. “You’re welcome to come later, though. Bring your…” he trails off suggestively.

“No one,” Zayn says easily. Harry stores up his happy dance to do later. “I might stop by, if you’re still going when this one goes to bed.” The boy scowls at him, in the reminder of bedtime.

“Do!” Harry urges. “I always want to know my neighbors!”

“Means you don’t have to go all Rear Window on them, right?” Zayn agrees, and he laughs, and Harry can’t process the way his face lights up just like his son’s, and the Hitchcock reference, and everything. It’s too much.

“Yeah,” he says, a little vaguely. He can feel himself smiling dopily, like he does when he can’t really do anything else. Someone calls him from down the hall calls his name. “I should—”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. He rubs the back of his neck. “Um, I’ll see you later then, I guess? Unless another ball comes flying your way?”

“Yeah.” He needs to stop saying that. “I mean, sounds good. Just come on in, the door’s open.”

“Great.” Zayn gives another smile, this one smaller and shyer and complete with a glance up from under his lashes that makes Harry want to swoon, and then he’s leading Hasan away and Harry closes the door behind him. He needs to start wearing less clothing in his backyard.

(Still creepy, Nick declares when Harry catches him up in back, But he’s hot as fuck, he adds, glancing over the fence, so I’ll allow it. Not that Harry cares what he says, Zayn’s coming over so it’ll stop being creepy for good, and when they get married and have their own children it really won’t be creepy at all.)


	38. Chapter 38

_**Prompt: High school au** _

Harry wouldn’t have noticed the guy going over to talk to Zayn on the bleachers if he wasn’t already paying attention, but as he’s more or less always paying attention to Zayn since they were five and best friends, even if they’ve stopped being best friends so much now, that’s not saying much. He’s—the guy, not Zayn, who is on his back on one of the metal bleachers, his combat boots resting flat on the bench, a book shading his face,  and looking like a cat basking in the sun so much that Harry wants to go over and bask with him—is a new kid, and kind of a thug, if Harry’s heard right from Cara who heard from Joe who heard from Devin. Older, a senior, and Harry doesn’t like the look of him. He’s got a leather jacket on, but not like Zayn wears his, like it’s part of his skin, but like he’s making a statement. Harry’s really meant to be talking to Sherry and Paul about Homecoming, and how they’re going to organize the pep rally, but he shrugs at them and inches closer to Zayn.

(It’s not the Zayn can’t take care of himself, it’s that Harry wants to be there to help)

He manages to get close enough to hear the guy talk, when he braces his hands on his hips and stares down at Zayn until Zayn lowers his book. Harry edges a little faster. He looks almost hungry, and Zayn might not know what he looks like in his t-shirt and jeans, with his glasses low on his nose, but Harry does.

(Harry really shouldn’t know)

“Hey,” the guy—Patrick, Harry thinks he’s heard—says, “You Zayn Malik?”

Zayn blinks, slowly, and lowers his book with an unimpressed eyebrow raise. “Who’s asking?” He’s got this way of talking, always has, like he doesn’t much care who’s listening, and Harry loves it but it’s never exactly helped the way he’s always gotten picked on a bit.

Patrick ignores him. “Heard you were the one to talk to if I wanted to get my dick sucked,” he says instead, bold as brass, and both of Zayn’s eyebrows go up even as Harry lets out an enraged exhale. He’d thought that rumor had gone away. He’d thought he’d crushed out that rumor in the months after Zayn came out, even if he’s pretty sure no one knew it was him. He needs to find out who was saying that.

“Fuck off,” Zayn retorts, and picks his book back up. It’s another one of the things about him that’s always fascinated Harry, even if he’s noticed it more since they split off into separate crowds when hitting high school. He lets it roll off his back. Harry can’t even do that when it’s not about him.

“That a no?” Patrick asks, stepping forward so his knee is bumping against Zayn’s hip.

“That’s a, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, mate, but I can’t imagine your cock is pretty enough for me,” Zayn shoots back, and swings up to sitting. He glances past Harry, and for a second his eyes glint with mischief, with that old glimmer of danger Harry’d always known. “His,” Zayn says, lips curving into a smile as he jerks his chin down the bleachers at Harry. “His, on the other hand, is pretty pretty.”

Harry knows a cue when he hears it, even if he’s kind of mentally unraveling, so he trots the rest of the way up and slides an arm around Zayn’s waist, pulls them close. It’s the closest he’s been to Zayn in years. Zayn smells of smoke and mint. He’s warm. He tucks easily against Harry’s side. Harry can handle this. “Hey, babe,” he says, trying for a purr. “Talking about me?” he grins up at Patrick, who he’s almost certain recognizes him, because he takes a step back. “He doesn’t do it enough, it’s quite disappointing.”

“If you did interesting things I’d talk about you more,” Zayn replies easily, because cute banter’s always been easy between them, even if they haven’t engaged in it in three years or so.

Harry sighs. “He’s an awful boyfriend, really.” He feels Zayn go tense next to him, and pats his hip reassuringly. “I don’t know why I put up with him.” He gives Patrick his best smile, one that hopefully says ‘isn’t he adorable?’ and also ‘I am one of the best-liked people in this school and if you do something to him I will be very put out with you’. It’s a lot to put in a smile, but given the way Patrick raises his hands and backs away, Harry’s pretty sure it works.

Zayn waits until Patrick’s out of sight, or at least out of earshot, before he turns to face Harry. The motion drags Harry’s hand across his lower back. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says immediately, no more than a whisper.

Harry tilts his head, narrows his eyes in a question. “But you started it? I just played your cues.”

“Yeah, with the sucking your cock thing. But the boyfriend thing—that’s going to go around school now. It’s probably around school already.”

Right. Harry probably should have thought of that. He had been a little caught up in the whole ‘touching Zayn again’ thing and the ‘get to say I’m his boyfriend’ thing to notice.

Given that he doesn’t have a solution for that, he retorts, “The you sucking my dick thing would have been too!”

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah, but I was okay with that.”

Harry chokes. “What?”

Another shrug, but there’s that mischief in his gaze again. “Didn’t much mind people thinking that, honestly. Think some people already assume it.”

“They don’t,” Harry snaps back. He’d crushed that rumor. He had. And now he was going to do a better job of it.

Zayn just laughs. “Not cause of that, though thanks. Just ‘cause we’re, like, two of the five out guys in the class, and we’re both attractive, and ‘cause you’re you.” One side of his lips curves up into a wry smile. “Not that unreasonable, really.”

It—that makes sense. It still isn’t good, particularly, because just because they’re gay people shouldn’t assume they’re hooking up, they don’t do that for straight people. And also because thinking about Zayn sucking his dick is really not helping his mental equilibrium, and making him shift a little uncomfortably on the bench. They’re still really close, knees knocking, close enough that Harry could probably count Zayn’s eyelashes.

“Oh,” is Harry’s brilliant response. Then he collects himself, because he is good at this, good at talking. “And you don’t mind?”

Zayn gives Harry a long, considering look, then shrugs. “Not exactly.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s not like I haven’t thought about it.”

Harry chokes again, both on surprise and on the arousal that rushes through him. Zayn’s smirking, because he totally did that on purpose, and Harry pouts as well as he can. “Yeah?” he asks, then adds, “Well I’ve thought about the other thing.”

“Sounds kinky.”

“No! Well…” Zayn snorts out a laugh, and Harry grins back. “No, like, the boyfriends thing. I wouldn’t mind either.”

Again, Zayn goes still. “Yeah?”

Harry reaches out a hand, sets it on his knee. They both look down at it, how it spans the denim, wraps around the bottom of Zayn’s thigh. “Yeah.”


	39. Chapter 39

_**Prompt: Coffee shop au** _

“Hi Zayn!” The man behind the counter looks up from poking at the register when Zayn gets to the front of the line, grinning. Zayn sometimes likes to think it’s a special, just-for-him grin, but he also doesn’t like to deceive himself. It’s a marketing tool, but it’s a good one, and it makes Zayn feel nice, which isn’t easy in the mornings, so he doesn’t care. He’ll take the dimples and the flour-streaked curls. “How’s my favorite customer?”

“Bet you say that to all the boys,” Zayn mutters. He’s been going to this coffeeshop since he was hired at the firm, and he’s comfortable enough to sort of joke, even if it’s quietly. He’s not exactly good at joking in the morning. “Large triple shot?”

“No, you can have a single shot latte and a muffin,” Harry says firmly. “You have too much caffeine.”

“I don’t have enough sleep,” Zayn counters. He’s pretty sure that’s the important issue here. He hasn’t gotten enough sleep since he started work. He misses college. “I need caffeine.”

“You need real food.” Harry gives Zayn a considering look, that isn’t really a considering look like Zayn would sort of like it to be, or is only a considering look like he gives to all his customers. Zayn’s seem him, while he’s waiting in line; he flirts with them all. It’s always a good reminder. “Need some meat on your bones.”

“You mean I can’t live on coffee?” Zayn drawls, and Harry laughs, a low, rumbling chuckle that sinks into Zayn’s bones. It wakes him up better than the coffee.  

“Not even mine,” Harry retorts with anther dimpling grin, and turns to start making the coffee. Zayn leans on the counter, trying to convince himself to stay awake, and that watching Harry shimmy a little to the music around the shop while he steams the milk isn’t adorable and waking him up better than anything else.

Behind Zayn, the bell of the door opening dings, and Zayn’s ready to ignore whoever’s coming up behind him—he loves city isolationism, sometimes—when he hears his name.

“Malik?” The man coming in behind him says. Zayn jolts upright, rolling his shoulders back and trying to blink awake as the senior partner gets into line behind him. “Malik, you’re here early! Putting in a couple few minutes extra? Means you can get the Oslo project on my desk by noon, right?”

Zayn blinks, tries not to think about the hour he left at yesterday, at how much he has yet to do on the Oslo project—which wasn’t due until tomorrow when he left yesterday, when he had just finished the Polowy project, which was due at nine this morning, fucking hell. “Yes, sir.”

“Good man. Simmons got his to me last night, so the earlier you get yours the better!” he laughs jovially, but Zayn knows exactly what he’s saying. Fucking hell. That’s why Simmons had shirked his half of the Polowy report.

“Of course, sir,” Zayn says.

“I’ll have a small coffee,” the partner says, over Zayn’s shoulder, and Zayn looks back and tries to communicate with eyebrows alone to serve the older man first.

It must work, somehow, because Harry hands him the coffee and rings him up with a bright smile and a wish of a good day, before turning back to the milk.

The man gives Zayn another slap on the back before he leaves “Noon!” he says again, and Zayn really hopes the door hits him on the way out.

“Hell,” Zayn mutters again, once he’s sure he’s left, and drops his head onto the counter. If he has to do all of the Oslo Project this morning, he’s going have to finish off all the stuff he had meant to do this morning this afternoon, and he’s going to be here til nine again. He really hates his job.

“Here,” comes a quiet voice, and Zayn looks up. Harry’s pushing a large cup at him, and a bag. “I put two shots in it. It looks like you’ll need it.”

“I will,” Zayn agrees, and stands up again. Okay. He needs to get in. He needs to get started. “Here, um,” he reaches into his pocket. He thinks he has cash…

“Not today.” Harry shakes his head. “On the house.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Harry gives him a grin, but it’s not the bright, dimpling one Zayn’s used to. Maybe this one is just for Zayn. “Maybe that’ll make your day better.”

“Don’t think anything could, but thanks.” Zayn sighs, and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “See you tomorrow, then. If I last that long.”

He takes a final deep breath before turning to face the music.

“Wait a sec.” Zayn turns. Harry’s lips are pressed together, and he’s shifting from foot to foot like he’s considering. Then he nods, as if to himself, and ducks under the counter so he can walk up to Zayn. He pauses again, like a question, but Zayn is tired and stressed and doesn’t know what he’s asking. Then Harry’s taking his face in his massive hands, and kissing him, soft and sweet.

Zayn blinks, and he pulls away. “Just to brighten your day,” Harry says, without looking away.

Zayn swallows. “Um, thanks?” he says again, because it’s all he can think to say. Then, “I mean, it did. Yeah. Thanks.” He rubs his neck again, then keeps going. He can almost still feel Harry’s lips against his.

“And to give you motivation to live ‘til tomorrow,” Harry calls after him, a rough laugh in his voice, and Zayn carries that laughter with him up into work.


	40. Chapter 40

_**Prompt: Zarry, somehow including Zayn's love of pets in it...anything involving Zarry and animals** _

“Don’t let the cat out!” The yells comes down the hall the instant Harry opens the door, and he slams it shut an instant before a streak of white comes flying at it, veers of at the last second, narrowly avoids hitting Harry’s duffel bag, then darts down the hall again, all in the space of maybe two seconds.

Harry just sighs. “Zayn!” he calls, and continues down the hall of the small flat to the sitting room. “Mysterious cat is still in, and it’s me!” 

Zayn’s sitting on the couch that acts as Harry’s bed while he’s in town, and Harry has a second to just take in the sight of him, with his bedhead and loose t-shirt and glinting eyes matching the ones from the cat next to him—before he’s hit in the leg and nearly knocked over.

“Oh! Hi, Carmen. Didn’t mean to neglect you,” he says at the prompt, and kneels to greet the dog properly, running a hand over her back as the yellow lab-mutt thing slobbers on his knees, hopping along happily on her three legs. He’s never been a dog person—wasn’t really an animal person, before he met Zayn—but Carmen’s a good exception. Better than Magneto, who Zayn had last time.

He feels, more than sees, Zayn get up and come over. “She’s looking better,” he observes, and pats her on the head before he glances up in time to see Zayn look down with a fond, proud gaze. For the dog, Harry knows. Not for him.

“Yeah, she’s basically healthy now. Think it’s almost time for her to go,” Zayn agrees, with a twist of his lips Harry knows—regret and hope all together, the expression he always gets when one of his strays is rehabbed enough to be adopted permanently. He scratches at the dog’s head affectionately, his hand brushing beside Harry’s, then tugs Harry to his feet.

“Hey, Haz,” he adds, and that’s a better smile. That’s his Harry-smile, and it’s beaming and crinkly eyed and Harry’s favorite sight since he was just dreaming of far away places and a journalism degree. “Welcome home.”

He pulls Harry into a hug, and Harry wraps his arms tight around his shoulders and squeezes tight, tight enough that he pretends he can hold on, that they’ll just merge into one person. He inhales, breathes in the scent Zayn’s carried with him for years, like smoke and fur and the closest thing Harry’s had to home since he graduated.

“Hey, Zayn,” he replies, a little late, but it always takes Harry a few seconds to acclimatize to the Zayn-ness of his presence.

It’s just so nice to stand there, holding Zayn. Like they’re still twenty and everything’s simple, like Harry still thinks that maybe—

He still has hope, because he’s incapable of not having hope. It’s the most painful thing. But he doesn’t let himself believe the hope anymore, that one day Zayn will look at him like he looks at Zayn. Or if the does let himself, it’s only when he’s far away and a bit lonely and no one can see the dopily adoring smile on his face as he opens an email telling all about Zayn’s life and his ever-changing roster of pets.

Then something twines its way between his legs, pushes, and Harry would overbalance if Zayn didn’t catch him with a hand on his waist that has Harry nearly overbalancing again. He lets go once Harry’s steady, then reaches down to pick up the tabby cat. “Getting jealous?” he asks her, cuddling her to his chest and pressing a kiss between her ears.

Yes. “Hi, Prada,” Harry says instead, and gives her a stroke. She gives him a skeptical look—as one of the few permanent residents of Zayn’s flat, Harry’s always been pretty sure she’s been around long enough to get him pegged—but she deigns to purr. “Do I need to do a full walk through?” he asks.

“They’ll find you eventually,” Zayn laughs as Prada squirms out of his grip and stalks away. “So, how was Rome?”

“Old. Catholic,” Harry says, and lets Zayn lead him to the couch as he starts to tells his stories. If he drags them out even longer than usual, adding in all the details he can remember and making some up from stories other people told, so Zayn will keep on looking at him with that steady, intrigued look that always makes Harry want to preen, he’s pretty sure only Prada knows.

—

After dinner Harry shoos Zayn out of the kitchen so he can clean—part of the longstanding trade for letting Harry crash here. When he finishes and comes out, Zayn’s on the couch with a textbook open on the table and a mop of white fur in his lap.

“Another one, Zayn?” he asks, mock-despairing. Zayn glances up, another one of those heart-stopping smiles on.

“I’m a veterinary student, I’ve got to have animals. And most of them aren’t permanent.”

“But 4?”

“6, actually.” Zayn runs a sheepish hand through his hair, mussing it up even more. “There’s a bird in my room. And Arnie’s got a snake friend.”

“Ew!”

“Nah, it’s sick! I’m trying to train him so he can be let out.”

“Not while I’m here.” Harry shudders. He loves Zayn, but snakes are gross.

“Fine. But he’s harmless, really.” He scoots to the side to let Harry sit down next to him. Harry reaches into Zayn’s lap to pet what has resolved itself into a kitten, and, because he’s had six years of practice, doesn’t think about his hand is just sitting in Zayn’s lap.

“Who’s this?”

“This is Shere Khan,” Zayn informs him, and the kitten shies away from Harry’s hand. Harry gives Zayn a confused look. “He thinks he’s a tiger,” Zayn explains, “Or he should. He was abandoned.”

“Shit!” Harry pulls his hand away, glaring at the cat who just bit him. “Why do none of your pets like me?” he demands.

“You encroach on their territory,” Zayn explains, “And well, Khan isn’t great with people yet. We’re working on it.” He gives Khan a few scratches with his long, clever fingers, then laughs as Prada jumps into his lap and Carmen buts at his leg.

It makes Harry’s heart hurt, Zayn with all his animals covering him, wrapped in the misfits he’s taken in and made better. It’s what Zayn does, what he’s always wanted to do—take of people. Animals. Everyone. Harry’s been around the world twice over at least, and he’s never seen anything better than Zayn with a hand on Carmen’s head and another running over Prada’s flank, looking like he’d purr if he could. God, Harry wants to make him purr, or to have him make Harry purr, or something. He doesn’t even know.

“Oh, Haz,” Zayn smirks, “Do you want to be petted too?”

Sometimes Harry wishes he weren’t quite so obvious, but it’s not like Zayn’s ever actually noticed. “Yes,” he pouts, and edges over so he can lean against Zayn’s shoulder. A second later, Zayn’s fingers start stroking through his hair, slow and easy and comforting, like it’s rooting Harry to the spot.

Sometimes Harry wonders if he’s another one of Zayn’s strays, who he lets stay on his couch and feed and cares for and makes love him until he sends him back. Sometimes, Harry wonders when Zayn will put him out for adoption. But then Zayn stops petting and starts more massaging, and Harry bites back a moan and nestles closer, and loses his train of thought completely.

Prada gives him another Look from where she’s curled up, but Harry just gives her a Look back. He’s staying. He’s part of the family Zayn’s made here too.


	41. Chapter 41

_**Prompt: jealous zarry...Where they have had a fight and then try to piss each other off. Zayn by spending time with Perrie and Harry for spending time with other girls. And then angry make up sex!** _

“So how was break?” Liam asks, once they’ve all fought their way through the crowds and made it to the private lounge where they’re waiting for their flight. They don’t often fly all five of them anymore—coming from different places, getting too big crowds—but for some reason management decided they needed to be seen together, to make sure everyone knows their friendship is intact despite being apart for two weeks, so all five of them it is. They might not be piled into two couches anymore, but it’s nice, Zayn thinks. Sort of nostalgic, to have Louis stretched out on one couch trying to pretend he’s still asleep, and Niall fiddling with his guitar in another, and him and Liam sharing another talking, their feet meeting in the middle, and Harry in a chair with ear buds in. he’s listening, though. Zayn can tell.

“Good,” Zayn shrugs. “Hung out with Perrie and the girls, went to some of their shows.”

“We know,” Harry says. Hah. Zayn had known he was listening. He ignores the sharp tone. If Harry’s still fucking angry even though he knows it isn’t his fault—

“I saw pictures of the shows,” Niall agrees. “Why can’t we have back up dancers?”

“’Cause you’d sleep with all of them,” Louis retorts, eyes still closed. Niall just laughs, and doesn’t deny anything.

“So she’s good?” Liam asks. He’s always been fond of Perrie, in a ‘being in a fake relationship sounds like it sucks I hope my concern will make it better’ sort of way. Zayn shrugs again, and tilts his head back so it can be more like he’s lying down and going to sleep and not getting on a plane.

“Yeah. It’s nice being with them, you know? Not as crazy.” A loud snort from Harry’s side of the room, because he’s the most fucking passive aggressive person in the world and Zayn is so fucking tired of it, but he doesn’t get it. He’s never gotten it. That it is nice not to be the one everyone’s screaming for for once, to be able to go along in the shadows. “And we got loads of pictures, so everyone’s happy.”

“Well, LA was great,” Harry breaks in pointedly. Zayn doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him. “The Azoffs were so nice, introduced me to all sorts of people…”

Zayn closes his eyes again. He’d seen those pictures too. And the fact that he knew what Harry was doing, getting pictures of him with what seemed like the entire population of LA, giving them his best flirty eyes and wicked smiles, hadn’t made it easier to see.

Liam glances between them, but he’s smart enough, and knows them well enough, not to say anything.

—-

No matter how many times Zayn flies—and they do, a lot—he still doesn’t like it. He doubts he ever will. It helps if he has someone to distract him next to him for take off and landing (it helps even more if it’s Harry), and having gum or, if it’s really bad, Xanax.

Of course, today, in the midst of Harry being passive aggressive and still mad for no good reason, Zayn had forgotten gum and Xanax, and he’s next to a fast asleep Louis, and he can feel himself tensing up. This isn’t going to be a good flight he knows, and takes a deep breath to settle himself.

Something lands on his lap, and he glances up to see Harry walking back to his seat two rows back and on the other side. He sits down, and gives Zayn a pointed glare, then crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes. Zayn looks at whatever he had thrown him—a bottle of Xanax.

It’s hard not to smile. But when he turns to at least mouth his thanks to Harry, Harry’s grinning sunnily at the very clearly star-struck girl in the seat next to him. Fine then. Zayn pops the drugs, leans over so he can use Louis as a pillow, and does not think about what’s happening behind him.

—-

It hadn’t even been a big fight, really. Harry had just said he was going to go to LA over break and Zayn should come with him, and Zayn had replied that he actually had made plans to follow Little Mix around. Zayn still doesn’t really get why Harry is so mad, honestly—he _knows_ it’s fake, knows it’s him who Zayn dreams about, who Zayn needs to text at 3 AM when he can’t sleep. But he had gotten mad, and their fights always got out of hand.

So now Harry’s in a strop, and Zayn is not going to apologize for doing what is basically his job, and is also hanging out with friends. If Harry wants to hang out with his friends, great. If he wants to fuck them, great. He can do that too.

—-

Once they reach cruising altitude, he’s usually okay, so he gets up to use the bathroom about halfway through the flight across the Atlantic. Louis’s woken up and is messing around on a Gameboy, and Harry’s asleep, Zayn thinks. He’s not talking to that girl, at least. Not that Zayn cares.

He hates airplane bathrooms too, but there’s not much to do about that, so he sanitizes his hand with the fake soap they give you, then unlocks the door. He’s pushed back in before he can step out by a heavy body, and his “The fuck—” is cut off by lips on his.

Harry’s frantic, almost, and Zayn can match it, the way he attacks Zayn’s mouth, gets his hands in Zayn’s belt loops and pulls him closer, and Zayn grabs at him back, his hands in Harry’s hair, pulling just like he likes. They don’t talk; there’s no time to talk. There’s just the familiar heat of him, the way he presses Zayn against the wall like he can’t wait, the way their hips roll together. Harry pulls away from Zayn’s lips, and Zayn lets out a quiet, questioning moan that’s cut off when he starts trailing his lip down Zayn’s neck, sucking and biting and Zayn’s choking on groans. They’re good at being quiet, after hundreds of backstage hook-ups, hand jobs in club bathrooms, even on the bus, but sometimes Zayn wishes—

Then Harry gets a hand down his sweatpants and he forgets to wish, just drags Harry’s mouth back to his to swallow his groan, and struggles to unbutton Harry’s jeans. It’s even faster after that, jerking each other off and panting into each other’s mouths, until Harry comes first, all over Zayn’s hand, and the way he bites into Zayn’s shoulder rather than make a sound means Zayn follows him down.

After, they skirt around each other to wash their hands, and avoid each other’s eyes. Zayn glances at himself in the mirror, as he tries to fix his hair. At least Harry’s long hair means it’s easy to make it look less mussed. But he must have missed something in the haze of pleasure, because his neck looks like one huge bruise, too high to be covered by anything less than a turtleneck, and he’s not wearing one of those in this heat.

“Shit, Harry,” he says, poking at the purple experimentally. “Did you have to—”

Harry turns so he’s pressed behind him, presses at it, not so experimentally, pushing his fingers down until it hurts and Zayn instinctively tilts his head to the side. Harry grins, meets his eyes in the mirror for the first time. “Say it’s from Perrie,” he says, like a dare and a challenge, and a sulk, and slips out of the bathroom.

—-

Zayn doesn’t say it’s from Perrie. He tugs a hoodie out of his bag for the rest of the ride, even if Louis gives him a knowing look, and then convinces Caroline to give him scarves and things until it fades. When he comes out for their first interview with a bandana tied around his neck, Harry glances at it, then up at Zayn. Zayn shrugs, and isn’t surprised when Harry tugs him into the backseat of the van after him, and shoos the other boys up front.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, arranging them so they’re tangled together, and Harry’s head is tucked into the curve of Zayn’s shoulder, so if he turned his head he could kiss at the bruise.

“I keep some things for us.”

“I know.” Harry lets out a low, long breath. “It’s just—there are always pictures, and articles, and things. And you look happy.”

“I like her,” Zayn agrees. He wraps an arm around Harry, and buries his nose in his hair. He smells like Harry, like coconut and home. “Not as much as I like you.”

He can feel Harry’s grin. “Come to LA with me, next time?” he asks. “I want you to meet everyone. I want everyone to meet you.” There’s the kiss Zayn knew was coming, to the underside of his jaw. “Want everyone to love you.”

Zayn thinks of the bright lights and constant cameras of Harry’s LA trips, of how they’d have to hide even more. Of those pictures of Harry, and all the rumors that circulate when he’s there. “Maybe,” he says, and closes his eyes. “I’ll try.”

“Zayn.”

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs, as Harry warps his arms tighter around Zayn’s waist. “Yeah, I’ll go.”


	42. Chapter 42

_**Prompt: Meet in a Dream** _

He dreams.

_They’re on a beach, somewhere, and the boy with the bright smile and dancing eyes is picking his way across the sand in a tiny yellow bathing suit. All his tattoos are so stupid, but he’s lovely, and Zayn knows he is coming for him._

_“Who are you?” Zayn asks, and his voice echoes._

_“Come play with me, Zaynie” the boy says, and holds out a hand._

_“I don’t like the sand.”_

_“Do you like me?”_

He wakes. He goes to class, goes to work, does his homework, talks with his friends, comes home.

Then he dreams.

_It’s a club, the music pounding, and the boy is there again, and he’s there with him. Or not with him, Zayn thinks, because he’s off dancing with someone else, and Zayn throws back a drink. There’s a guy next to him, and Zayn is talking to him._

_Then the boy is beside him. “Zayn, you should dance with me,” he says, and his hands are big on Zayn’s arms as he pulls him away._

_“I don’t know how to dance,” Zayn says, but he doesn’t pull away when the boy tugs him closer._

_The boy’s breath is warm in his cheek and Zayn can almost feel his lips against his ear. “Let me teach you”_

He wakes. Goes to class, goes to work. Spends some time in the library. Watches a movie. Counts the minutes until he sleeps.

_“Fuck, Harry!” he’s panting, and the boy grins up at him from between his legs, all cheeky mischief as his hands still on Zayn’s thigh. “Fuck, fuck—”_

_“That a demand?” the boy asks, and licks up Zayn’s cock, so Zayn shivers and bucks into the hands holding him down._

_“Harry, fuck, please.”_

_“If you insist,” he teases, and comes back up to kiss Zayn, long and dirty, full of teeth. Zayn gives as good as he gets here, until the boy is panting into his mouth too. “Fuck, Zayn, how are you so—”_

He wakes. Jerks off in the shower to an imaginary boy, goes to class, goes to work. Hangs out with friends, sketches in the park. Worries if he’s going insane.

Then he dreams.

_There’s a stage, and a thousand people yelling his name, and there are people on either side of him, brothers, and he is singing in a voice he recognizes as his own, smiling a smile he barely knows. He’s full of it, of the adrenaline and joy of being here, of the screams and the rush._

_“Look, Zayn.” An arm wraps around his neck, and pulls him back into a hard body. He knows the voice though, knows it from a hundred shows like this. “Can you believe it?”_

_“Not at all, Haz,” he says, laughing, and then Haz is moving away, and Zayn slaps him on the ass to go and is laughing harder, and the boy turns back to him with dimples deep in his cheek._

He wakes. Goes to class, goes to work. Sketches in a café. Goes to a party. No one is the boy in his dream. Goes home. Goes to sleep.

Then he dreams.

_He’s on a bus, in a bunk too small for the two people tucked together in it._

_“It’s just, I miss home sometimes, you know?” he’s saying, and the boy behind him nods, his nose running over Zayn’s neck. “Like I love this, but it’s a lot.”_

_“Yeah,” the boy agrees. One of his hands is resting on Zayn’s hip, and it’s making soothing little circles. “But think how boring life would be if we were normal?”_

_“Boring,” Zayn says, and takes a deep breath. He’s so tired. “Sometimes, I think I’d like boring, you know?”_

_“No.” The boy rolls, so he’s on top of Zayn, straddling, and he’s got fire in his eyes and his hands. “But you get me now, so what more could you want?”_

He wakes. Goes to class, goes to work. Goes to a new café to get a cup of coffee. The boy at the bakery turns around to serve him. He has a cheeky smile and fire in his eyes and those eyes widen when he sees him.

“Zayn?”

He’s not dreaming.


	43. Chapter 43

_**Prompt: meet in an elevator** _

Harry’s late. Not very late, not late enough that he’s actually going to be late, but he’s two minutes late. He knew he shouldn’t have gotten that coffee. Those are two important minutes. If he gets in later than those two minutes, he’ll miss _everything._ So he runs the last ten minutes from the station to the skyscraper where he works, one hand wrapped around his coffee and the other pressing his hat to his hair. It gets him his exercise _and_ gives him an extra ten seconds to shake his hair out, straighten his shirt, and make sure his coffee didn’t get everywhere before he saunters into the elevator lobby.

The reason Harry needs to get to work at 8:43 AM every day is there, as he always is, looking as stunning as ever—today, in a grey-green sweater that somehow manages to make him look soft and cozy and cuddlable but also gorgeous. And as always, he gives Harry a bit of a smile of welcome, then looks back down at his phone. And when the elevator comes, he steps in after Harry.

It’s been about a month, since Harry first saw him. He’d gotten to work early before then, more 8:15, 8:30, because he’s a morning person. But he had been running late, and had gotten to work, out of the best sort of serendipity, at 8:43. He hadn’t known it was serendipity, of course. Not until he had gotten on the elevator, and the hottest person he had ever seen had gotten in behind him.

Since then, Harry’s learned a few things other than the slope of the guy’s cheekbones and the infinite number of eyelashes he has. He doesn’t know his name, but he’s pretty sure he works in art, because once he was carrying a portfolio, and he gets off one floor down from where Harry works with the rest of the marketing team. He likes dark colors for his clothes usually, but also red (he looks breathtaking in red). He doesn’t always wear the suits Harry’s required to—which is another point in favor of art, they can wear whatever as long as it looks good. Sometimes he’s in t-shirts, or once he wore a hot pink bandana tied around his neck and Harry had nearly spit out his coffee.

He likes to read, because he often has a book and it’s usually a different one, which means he read a lot, and sometimes he’s reading while he waits for an elevator. He listens to RnB, because once Harry heard Drake coming out of his earphones when he has them in. He’s probably not a morning person, because he’s usually clutching a massive cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

What Harry does not know is how to talk to him.

 Maybe today, Harry thinks, like he always does. He doesn’t have his normal coffee, and his eyelids are drooping sensuously over dark eyes, but he doesn’t have a book or headphones. And they’re the only ones in the elevator, which almost never happens. It’s basically serendipity again.

Harry tries out a grin, his second biggest (the biggest one makes him look insane, Niall always says). The guy smiles back, and then ducks his head, so Harry can see the sweep of hair over his forehead. It’s really attractive.

He can do this. “Hey,” he says. The other guy’s head jerks up, his eyes suddenly wide with surprise. He looks a bit like Bambi, and his eyelashes are just too much. “I’m Harry. Figured it’s time I stopped thinking of you as the guy I ride the elevator with.”

It’s not his smoothest line, but it’ll do, and it gets him another close-lipped smile and a shy look. _And_ the other guys extends a hand and replies in a rough voice. “Zayn.”

“Zayn,” Harry echoes, savoring the sound of it. It’s the first real knowledge he’s had.

“Harry,” the other guy—Zayn—echoes, and oh he’s teasing! This is great. Teasing is basically flirting, which is basically hooking up, which is basically getting married.

Harry grins back, and tries to make sure his dimples show. “Say a name three times and you’ll remember it, right?”

“That was only two though, yeah?”

“Zayn,” Harry says, and gives a cheeky smile that has Zayn smiling back, a real full smile. Wow, it’s pretty. “So now I’ll remember you.”

“You wouldn’t already?” Zayn asks, then covers his mouth to yawn. “Shit, sorry. Not good at flirting before I’m awake.”

Harry looks at his slightly drunk coffee. “Here.” He offers it. “Maybe this’ll help.”

Zayn takes the coffee, and takes a sip from right where Harry’s lips had touched. “I—” he pauses as the elevator dings for Zayn’s stop. “Well, this is me. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah!” Harry gives a smile that is basically a wink. “I’ll bring the coffee.”

“Maybe I’ll be able to keep up, then,” Zayn retorts, and the doors shut on his smile.

If Harry whistles all day through work, well, he has a morning coffee date to look forward to.


	44. Chapter 44

_**Prompt: soul mate markings** _

When Harry meets Zayn, he’s already littered in tattoos, so Harry has no idea which one is his soul mate mark. He’s in the same boat—filled with them—but he likes his, the filled in heart tucked just under his hairline, so if his hair isn’t up it isn’t visible. He’s always liked how it seems to show that he keeps his heart hidden, even if it doesn’t seem that way. He figures Zayn’s is the same, hidden in the ink already there. And he doesn’t share, not like Louis, who had shown them the ship on his forearm almost within minutes of meeting them, or Liam, who had shyly shown the oak tree on his ribs. Niall hadn’t said anything, but it was pretty obvious that it had to be the shamrock over his heart, given that he didn’t have any other ink.

“It’s because Ireland’s my one true love,” he liked to say, and it was a line but sometimes Harry saw him running his hand over his heart with a thoughtful expression.

“Nah,” Zayn had said one time in an interview, with a wide grin like he didn’t usually get in public. “It’s ‘cause anyone’d be lucky to have you.”

Harry watched Niall tackle him to hug him, and bit his lip. Anyone’d be lucky to have me too, he didn’t say. You’d be lucky to have me.

—-

When he’d first seen Zayn without a shirt, a few days after meeting him, he’d been speechless for a number of reasons, but he’d also caught sight of the heart on his hip, like an echo of the one on Harry’s neck, and for a second he’d thought…but no, he decided. Couldn’t be. He hadn’t gotten Zayn then, had thought he was just weirdly quiet and moody and a bit mean, and that couldn’t be his soul mate. And anyway, a heart was a common symbol. He’d probably just chosen it for himself.

Harry tells himself that when he learns that Zayn is quiet and moody and a bit mean, but is also funny and kind and the best cuddle buddy. Tells himself that when he starts finding himself going to Zayn when he feels lost in this fast-paced world, for a bit of calm and comfort. When he finds himself checking in with Zayn do make sure he’s okay, because he knows how Zayn gets stuck in his head sometimes. When he finds himself looking for Zayn first thing always, because he likes to know where he is.

He tells himself that the first time they fall into bed together, drunk on adrenaline and alcohol and each other, but he still presses his lips to it anyway, scrapes his teeth over it like he’s leaving his mark before trailing kisses down the inside of Zayn’s thighs. Zayn doesn’t say anything—though to be fair Harry’s got him panting and squirming and swearing at him to “hurry the fuck up, fucking hell yes yes yes”.

It becomes a bit of a thing, whenever they do end up together, Harry kissing it. Zayn never comments, so basically that’s permission, Harry figures. Permission to pretend it is his tattoo, that they are soul mates, that he isn’t just Zayn filling time before he meets the person who matches his real tattoo.

And being Harry, he takes it farther—pokes at it when he’s trying to get Zayn’s attention, lets his hand settle over it when he wraps an arm around Zayn’s back as they take their bows. Rubs his fingers over it in idle circles as they lie together after sex, or even just cuddling, talking about home and dreams and everything. Sometimes he dreams about it, about asking and Zayn telling him it is—but it isn’t, and he knows that. And he’ll never ask. He doesn’t want to know for sure how much he’s pretending.

—-

 “I should draw you a tattoo,” Zayn says, idly, as he traces over the ink on Harry’s back. Harry murmurs out an assent. He’s not really good at thinking after mind-blowing sex, but Zayn does get talkative, if lazily so. He likes to touch, too, and it’s one of Harry’s favorite times, as he basks and Zayn runs his hands gently over Harry’s skin, like he’s mapping it. “Maybe make you cohere, a bit.”

“Can’t have that,” Harry retorts, and tilts his head a bit so Zayn will continue scratching at his hair, will get the good spot at the back of his head. Zayn, because he’s brilliant, does, his fingers digging just right into Harry’s scalp, and Harry moans a little, and hears Zayn’s giggle in return.

“What about this one?” Zayn’s finger fits right over the tattoo on Harry’s neck, and it feels so good, Harry’s almost ready for another round, Zayn touching. “Must’ve hurt like a bitch.”

“Never got it,” Harry murmurs into the pillow. Zayn’s finger presses harder for a second.

“What?” he demands. His voice isn’t lazy any more.

Harry forces himself a little more awake. “Didn’t get that one,” he explains, with as much a shrug as he can do lying on his stomach. “Soul mate mark.”

“What?” Zayn says again, and he’s not touching Harry anymore, which is all sorts of not okay, so Harry rolls over to look at him. He’s got wide, shocked eyes, and he almost looks…hurt, maybe?

“It’s my soul mate tattoo,” Harry says, slower. He’s not sure why Zayn’s looking like that. They’d both gone into this knowing they weren’t—weren’t forever. No matter what he might have wanted. “What are you—”

“Sorry,” Zayn interrupts him, and he actually does sound sorry. But then he’s rolling out of bed, and moving away, and Harry’d never meant to do that.

“Zayn—”

“Sorry I’m such a disappointment,” Zayn interrupts again, grabbing his jeans off the floor and pulling them on. It doesn’t cover the heart, but he can’t look at it. Looking at Zayn’s face isn’t much better, though, caught between sad and mad and something that looks like pain. “I didn’t—I’ll go.”

“What? No!” Harry tries to get up after him, but he gets caught in the sheets. “Why are you going?”

“Because clearly I’m not good enough as a soul mate!” Zayn shoots back, and Harry flinches like he’d been hit. Zayn looks like he’s been shot, breathing heavily, his lips pressed together like he’s holding in hurt. He takes a long, deep breath. “I’m sorry you don’t want me. We’ll figure it out, I promise. I’ll be—”

“Don’t want you?” Harry does manage to get up now, though he doesn’t bother putting on clothes. “Zayn, what are you talking about? Of course you’ll be a good enough soul mate, you’re good enough for anyone”—too good for me, apparently—“Of course I want you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks it quietly, this time.

“What? Didn’t tell you what?”

“That we match!”

It’s Harry’s turn to freeze, as the sound of that word echoes at him. Match. They match. They—“Zayn,” he says slowly. He hasn’t said these words before. Hadn’t dared. “Which one is your soul mate tattoo?”

The hurt is receding from Zayn’s face, but it’s replaced by confusion. “You don’t—I figured you knew. You always, like, touch it and all. I thought I must have told you, or something.”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats. “Which one.”

Zayn presses on the heart at his hip with the same finger he had touched Harry’s. “You didn’t know?”

Harry lunges for him, because he might not really be able to believe he isn’t dreaming but he doesn’t care, and he thinks he’ll believe it if he kisses Zayn a thousand times. “Do now,” he says, right before he brings their lips together. Zayn’s hand is in his hair, wrapped around his neck so he’s pressing over his heart, and Harry’s hand is pressing onto Zayn’s, and they match. They _match_.

—-

Later, years later, an interviewer will ask, “So it’s well known that you are soul mates, and that you have plenty of matching tattoos. Which ones are the real ones?”

Zayn will squeeze Harry’s hand, and Harry’s fingers will drum over his hip, over his heart. “We don’t like to tell,” Zayn will say, and Harry will grin and pick up the sentence.

“We like to keep people guessing.”


	45. Chapter 45

_**Prompt: 'Not In That Way' by Sam Smith** _

“Hey, babe.” Zayn ruffles Harry’s hair as he walks around the couch. He drops his bag next to his room, sighs, and drops himself onto the couch, his head arching back so it can rest on the couch cushion as his eyes close. He hadn’t bothered to get dressed up for class, was still just in sweatpants and a t-shirt with a beanie pulled over his hair. It always makes Harry think how easy it would be to pull down those sweatpants and blow the tension he can see in his neck right out of him, or to just slide his hand up his shirt.

He swallows, and doesn’t. “Hey, Zayn,” he says instead, and stares down at his textbook. It’d be too easy to just curl up next to his warmth and never leave. “Long day?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Zayn agrees. He drags a hand over his face. When it comes up, though, it’s smiling—smirking, really, a self-satisfied thing that always goes right to Harry’s cock, makes him think of how he might look after he’d gotten Harry off. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, either.”

It hits Harry right in the gut, it feels like, but after a year he’s more or less armored against it, so it only hurts a little. “Oh?” he asks instead, because he is a good friend. “That’s what you get for pulling when you have class in the morning.”

“Yeah, mate, but did you see her?” Zayn asks, waggling his eyebrows. He wouldn’t kiss and tell, Harry knows, is too much of a gentleman for that. But he can imply plenty with tone of voice, and Harry had seen her, a delicate little blonde with big brown eyes and a lush, curvy figure. Harry wraps a hand in his own wild hair and tugs, lightly. Just to remind himself.

But it backfires, because it makes Zayn’s eyes turn from laughing to concerned. “Hey, babe, you okay?” he asks again, and twists so that he’s leaning forward and really peering into Harry’s eyes. He’s lovely and really, legitimately concerned, and Harry’s never sure whether to laugh or cry or scream when he gets like this. It should be enough. He knows that.

“Fine,” Harry sighs, though. “Just—”

“Oh, right, that test this afternoon!” Zayn interrupts him. “Want me to quiz you?”

“Sure you don’t want a nap?” Harry asks instead, and Zayn shakes his head.

“Nah, I’ll be fine.” He covers a yawn with his hand, and pulls the textbook off of Harry’s lap. Then he turns around so he can lean against the arm and tuck his feet under Harry’s thigh. There’s not even skin-to-skin contact, but Harry still feels it like he’s red-hot. “Just this chapter?”

“Yeah. ‘s really okay if you want to go nap, though—”

“What else are friends for, yeah?” Zayn purses his lips at the textbook, and poses a question.

It’s so easy to pretend, is the thing, in this nice little island of the suite. So easy to forget about how Harry isn’t what Zayn wants, not ever and not because it’s him just because of the stupid, awful fact that Zayn is straight and Harry is male. So easy to remember how Zayn is exactly what Harry wants, beautiful and sweet and a little wicked and a lot affectionate.

Especially when Harry disputes an answer Zayn says is wrong and has to see the book to show he’s right and that has to involve climbing over Zayn to get to it as Zayn tries to hold it out of his reach, both of them giggling almost too hard to remember why they’re fighting. Somehow, it ends up with Harry on his back on the couch with Zayn pinning him down by the shoulders, because Harry always loses his playfights with Zayn even though he shouldn’t. But he can’t complain, because this is often how it ends up, their bodies pressed together and Zayn grinning down at him so wide Harry wants to bite it off of him.

“Now who’s right?” Zayn demands, and Harry grins back and squirms beneath him, trying-not-trying to get away.

“Still me,” he insists.

“Don’t see you proving it,” Zayn retorts.

“Don’t see you disproving it,” Harry shoots back. Zayn sticks out his tongue and sits back on his heels, so he’s just straddling Harry. Harry swallows, and wills away the part of him that is thinking very hard about which parts of them are lining up.

“Well I have the book, I don’t have to.”

“Not anymore.” Harry glances over to where the book’s lying on the floor.

Zayn sighs with mock-exasperation. “Well, I had it, so it counts.”

“Nope!” Harry reaches out, and before Zayn can stop him grabs the book and pulls it to him. “No, look, it says here, fuck, stop!” he dissolves back into giggles as Zayn flops on top of him and digs his fingers into his sides, tickling with all his might. “No, fuck, stop, Zayn!”

Zayn pauses, still spread out on top of Harry so they’re pressed together thigh to shoulder. “You okay?”

“What? Yeah.” It always takes Harry by surprise, the sudden sweetness of Zayn that can appear in the middle of mischief or anger or sadness. Zayn stops tickling, starts smiling down at Harry. He’s barely six inches away from Harry’s face; he could kiss him. It would be so easy to just push up and kiss him and taste the smile, taste the concern and humor and fondnesss.

He doesn’t. He won’t. He can’t. He needs this too much, needs the bits of Zayn he can get. The part that rolls off of Harry and then tugs him up to sitting, tucks them together so his chin is resting on Harry’s shoulder and he can page through the book on Harry’s lap as well.

It’s enough, Harry tells himself sternly. It has to be enough. Because Zayn brings home pretty girls, not boys with too many limbs and too much hair who are so desperately in love with him they’d pine after their straight best friend for a year or more. 

It’s not enough, of course. But it’ll have to be, because he’s not getting any more.


	46. Chapter 46

_**Prompt: vampire au** _

“I suppose I should tell you something.” Harry’s fiddling with the condensation on the table of the bar table they’re perched at, and his shoulders are sort of hunched in. Zayn holds in a sigh. He doesn’t think it would be an STD this time, Harry seems careful and anyway Niall had done a full background check, but he’s thinking still hung up on an ex. He should have expected it, really. He hasn’t been able to date a normal guy in years. He blames Doniya.

When Harry hesitates, Zayn runs a hand through his hair and tries to smile. “What?” he prompts. Best to get it over with. Then he can go home and have Liam pet his hair and feed him ice cream  and then they can go out and do their jobs and he can get distracted. It’s just—he had _liked_ Harry. More than a lot of guys recently.

“It’s just, I like you, Zayn. A lot,” Harry starts. Zayn bites back a snort. He’s heard that one before. I like you, Zayn, but you’re too weird. But you hang out with weird people. But your family is a little off, a little too secretive. But but but but. “And I love seeing you, it’s great. You’re great. But—” there it is, Zayn’s least favorite word—“before this gets any farther, you need to know something, because I think it’s only fair.” He takes a deep breath. Maybe it’s drugs, Zayn thinks, or some weird religious cult. “I’m a vampire.”

Zayn nearly drops his drink. “What?”

“A vampire,” Harry explains, his voice a bit hushed so no one outside of their booth can hear him. “I’m sorry I lied and everything but you were so hot and normal and you liked me, and so I led you on, but I’m a vampire. I suck blood and have fangs and can’t go out in sunlight, because I get set on fire, not because I sparkle, though I think that could be fun, and really, I’m not joking!”

Zayn can hardly breathe for laughing, even if more than half of it is hysterics. Of course. A vampire. He was due. “Oh I believe you,” he manages to get out, “I really do believe you.”

“Then why are you laughing?” Harry’s lips press together in a pout. He’s cute, still. He’s a bloody vampire and he’s cute. Oh, Doniya’s going to kill him. Liam’s going to kill him. Niall—will probably fist bump him. But still. “It’s not a laughing matter, I can be dangerous. I don’t have a soul. Not that I don’t try to do good anyway, but I don’t have a soul, and I could hurt you, and going into hysterics won’t help. Do you need me to call someone to take you home, if you don’t want to be near me? I could—”

“I think,” Zayn says, holding up a hand to stop him, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Unless you’re a werewolf, I don’t think—” Zayn glances at the straw sitting on their table, flicks his gaze up to Harry. The straw flies up and hits his forehead, right between wide green eyes. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a witch.”

“Warlock, but yeah.”

“You know about vampires?”

“And all that.” So many all that. What is it about him that always attracts the supernatural creatures? Why can’t he be like Liam and just find a nice normal girl to date, who doesn’t have fangs or is a mummy or an incubus? Is it a witch thing? “Also,” he rubs his hand over the back of his neck, and glances around. His fingers drum a quick rhythm on the table, getting ready to cast a ward, just in case.  “My sister’s kind of the Slayer?”

“The Slayer?” Harry freezes for a second, in a sort of atavistic response to the name, and his eyes get even wider. “You’re the Slayer’s brother?”

“Yeah? Like, that’s why I’m trained, once my parents realized they made sure all of us could protect ourselves.”

Harry’s eyes are still very wide, and his fists are clenched on the table. “Are you going to Slay me?” he asks, very calmly. “I won’t blame you if you do, or try to at least. But I do animal blood and don’t really talk to other vampires much.” He smiles, and he still has those bloody dimples that made Zayn look twice in the first place. “They don’t make very good company, you know?”

Shit. Doniya is actually going to disown him for this. He is such a bloody cliché. “No,” he says, and reaches out to touch Harry’s wrist, where his pulse would be if he had one. “Not going to kill you, now. You going to drink from me?”

Harry’s grin flashes, and his lips draw back to reveal a hint of fang. Zayn would be lying if he said it wasn’t a little bit hot. Such a cliché, god, Niall will never stop laughing at him. “Only if you ask nicely.”


	47. Chapter 47

_**Prompt: arranged marriage** _

They’re five when they meet. Zayn’s trying his best to hide behind his mother’s leg, because there are a lot of people around he doesn’t know and they have strange accents and his mum had told him he had to be on his best behavior, and he wants to go home.

There’s another boy his age there too, but and Zayn’s kind of in awe because he’s not hiding, he’s running around trying to look at all the flowers, and his mother’s got a hand on him like he’d run away if she didn’t let go. Zayn might run away, but only if they were at his home where he could go to his windowseat and look at his pictures.

“Hey. Hey, baby.” His mother leans down, and loosens his grip on her leg. “There’s someone you need to meet, okay?”

“Do I have to?” Zayn asks, and his mother gives him a smile before nodding.

“Yes, love, you do.” So she leads him over to the other boy, who’s holding his mom’s hand and bouncing, with a bright smile on his face. “Zayn,” she says, “This is Harry. We hope you’re going to be good friends.”

Harry grins at him. “Hi!” he says, excited. Zayn takes a step back, closer to his mother. He just wants to go home.

—-

They’re ten before they really understand what it means. Zayn explains it to Harry, at their bi-yearly meeting.

“We’re going to get married, one day,” he tells him. Harry nods. Zayn’s, like, really smart, reads so many books, so Harry’s pretty sure he knows everything.

“Married?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. “Isn’t that just for parents?”

“Yeah, but we’ll do it when we’re grown-ups,” Zayn explains, kicking his heels against the stone tiles of the garden. “Like, forever from now.”

“Oh.” Harry nods, takes in this information. He thinks there are worse people he could be married to then Zayn. He likes Zayn, usually. Sometimes he can be annoying, and he tries to get Harry into trouble, but they’re friends. “Marriage is kissing, right?”

“Yeah.”

“We should probably try that, then, right?” Harry suggests. “In case we don’t like it, and we can tell our parents we don’t want to get married.”

Zayn shrugs, and bites at his lip. “I guess.” He slides off the bench, and stands so he’s next to Harry. He’s a little taller than Harry, because he’s a little older, but Harry thinks he’s catching up. Harry’s the one who leans in and pushes his lips against Zayn’s though. It’s kind of weird.

“I don’t…think that was bad?” Zayn says, hesitantly, and Harry nods. They’ll have plenty of time to get it right.

—-

 By the time they’re fourteen, it’s not quite so easy anymore. “I don’t think I want to get married anymore, Zayn,” Harry announces, the second their mothers have left them alone. They’re in the garden again, because it’s somehow where they always hang out at these trips, but now they’re just lying on the grass because no one looks for them there.

Zayn tries not to look offended. “Why not?”

“I’m in love!” Harry exclaims rapturously, tugging at his hair and flopping backwards.

That gets Zayn’s interest. “Really?” he asks. He’s never been in love before.

“Yes! Her name is Caroline and she’s beautiful and wonderful and everything.” He flips over so he can look at Zayn. “Not that you aren’t. But I’m in love with her.”

Zayn shrugs. He’s not offended, not really. It’s not like he’s in love with Harry, even if Harry is pretty cute, he’s started to notice. But it’s more the thought of Harry that he likes. It makes everything easier, having someone to point to as his future, so he doesn’t have to worry like his friends are.

“Why don’t we wait a year,” he suggests. Pretty fairly, he thinks. Harry tends to be reckless, and it’s Zayn’s responsibility to make sure nothing bad happens because of that. “If you’re still in love with her we can talk to our parents.”

“Okay,” Harry pouts, like it’s not quite good enough but he’ll settle for it, and then spends the rest of Zayn’s stay talking about Caroline.

—-

Things start to get really difficult when they’re seventeen. That’s when Harry catches Zayn smiling at one of the nobles hanging around with them on his visit, and it sets him into a mood for the rest of Zayn’s stay.

It’s not that he thinks Zayn shouldn’t. They’ve always had a sort of unspoken rule that what happens before the wedding, stays before the wedding (four years away, and maybe Harry’s started sort of counting down). Harry had his thing with Caroline, and then some others, and he knows Zayn has had things with people back home that he hasn’t asked about. (at first, he didn’t think to ask. Then he didn’t want to know). He doesn’t begrudge Zayn that, really.

It’s just…something’s different, this visit. Harry doesn’t know if it’s because Zayn’s grown up, lost a lot of the baby fat he’d had so now he’s got these cheekbones and these shoulders and is attractive enough Harry almost didn’t recognize him, or if it’s something in Harry that’s changed, that now he’s sort of looking at Zayn’s hands and thinking about them, that he watches Zayn’s lips form words and thinking about them too. That he’s somehow cycled back to being pretty sure Zayn knows everything, even if he knows he doesn’t.

So when he sees Zayn smiling at that boy, smiling with, like, intent, it throws Harry into a sulk. Zayn should be smiling at him like that. Zayn’s his fiancée, after all. He goes to his room and shuts himself in for a proper sulk, until there’s a knock on the door.

“Harry?” Zayn says. Shit. “Let me in?”

He can’t not. Both because his parents will be angry if he doesn’t, and also because it’s Zayn asking, in that tentative voice like he’s not sure he’ll be allowed, that makes Harry think of the little boy he first met, hiding behind his mother. So he gets up, and opens the door, then turns right around and throws himself back onto the bed. He’s mad at Zayn. He needs to remember it.

“You okay?” Zayn asks, though, and just climbs into bed next to him. It’s easy, habit basically, to curl up into him, like they do every time. But it’s different now. Different, because now Harry tilts his head and sees Zayn’s jaw, sees Zayn’s lips and thinks how kissing him now would be different than when they were ten.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, and snuggles closer, as Zayn’s arm comes around his shoulders. It doesn’t matter who Zayn smiles at. He’ll have him in the end.

—-

They get married a month after Harry turns twenty-one. It’s a massive affair, fitting for the cementing of an alliance, and Zayn hates it. It’s big and loud and everyone’s looking at him and asking things about him and he’s nervous, damn it. He knows he shouldn’t be, because it’s just Harry, but—it’s Harry. He’s going to be married to Harry in an hour. It feels unreal, now that it’s here.

And it’s—he’d thought it was going to be easy, being married to his oldest friend. It should be easy. And if Zayn’s a bit in love with him and Harry’s not in love with Zayn, well, they’ll get past that. Zayn won’t let it make Harry uncomfortable. Won’t even let Harry know. He’s managed for the past two years, it shouldn’t be too hard for the next fifty.

But he can’t sit here, in this room waiting for what feels a bit too much like a sword falling over his neck. And for all he’s spent plenty of time here, knows the nooks and crannies as well as Harry’d taught him, there’s one place to go. The gardens.

There’s enough room to pace there, at least. Enough to walk in circles and make sure his head is on straight.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Zayn finishes his circle to turn and find Harry looking at him. He looks devastatingly handsome, as usual, in all reds and golds, his curls pulled back by a thin band of gold. Zayn’s going to get to take all that off of him, tonight, he thinks, breathless. Zayn’s going to have to take all of that off of him, to live up to years of wondering. Shit.

“What?” he asks. Harry comes forward to meet him, grabbing at his shoulders. He’s shaking too, a bit. It makes Zayn feel better, almost.

“Are you freaking out?”

“No. It’s just you,” Zayn sticks out his tongue. “Why would I be freaking out?”

“It’s just me.” Harry looks down, and now he isn’t smiling anymore. Shit. Zayn can’t even keep him happy for five minutes, how’s he supposed to do a lifetime? “We’ll be good together. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Zayn can’t help bringing his hands up to cover Harry’s. Harry’s head jerks up at the contact. “I know.”

Harry’s giving Zayn a look he can’t read. Then he swallows, like he does when he’s swallowing down nervousness, like he did before Zayn made him jump into the river or when he finally talked back to Gemma. “Before the wedding, I wanted…” he trails off, then shakes his head, like he’s convincing himself of something, and kisses Zayn.

It’s…not like when they were ten. It’s still sweet, and soft, and Zayn freezes for a second, confused, and Harry draws back before he can process what’s happening. “I love you,” Harry says, too fast. “I needed to tell you that before we got married, because it’s not about being married, or that we’ve been engaged our whole lives. I love you, and it’s fine if you don’t. But we’ll be fine, I promise.”

Zayn’s got a lump in his throat he can’t talk through, and he doesn’t know what he’d say anyway, so he just pulls Harry back in for another kiss. It can’t be long, and Zayn can’t do any of the things he’s been imagining since they were sixteen because they can’t muss these outfits, but it’s enough that he lets go of Harry’s hands to grab at his waist and Harry’s pulling him closer.

“Me too,” he says, when they finally pull apart, an inch away from Harry’s lips. “All of it. I promise too.”

They’re twenty-one, and it feels like they have forever.


	48. Chapter 48

_**Prompt: Mythical Creature/Human AU** _

Normally, Harry can forget Zayn’s, well, not human. He looks human, he acts human, he sounds human, so basically Harry can pretend he’s human, he’s just like the rest of them. He’s just a twenty year old internationally known boy band pop star, like everyone else. Yeah, he’s ridiculously good-looking—it makes Harry almost angry, sometimes, how effortlessly attractive he is—but normal people can be like that too.

Except sometimes. Sometimes, Harry can’t forget. And it’s not when Louis’s poking at Zayn to get him to light a cigarette because he’s forgotten his lighter, or when he’s wrestling with Liam and winning despite looking about half his weight. It’s not even when he gives Harry that smile, the one with all his teeth that almost look pointed.

It’s when—it’s like at the beginning, before he had told them, and Harry had asked why he hated planes so much. Zayn had looked out the window of the airport to where the jets were taking off and landing, and he had looked old, suddenly, old and tired and wistful. “It’s not real flying,” he had said, and Harry had put it down to just another weird, incomprehensible Zayn thing for a year until Zayn had finally told them.

It’s that look, that makes Harry remember that his bandmate isn’t just his bandmate. That look he gets sometimes, usually as he stares outside, when he isn’t twenty anymore, he’s ancient and eternal and it’s almost painful to look at. He gets it at the oddest times, too; watching the clouds, looking at the ring on his finger, studying the pyrotechnics.

And somehow those moments always happen at the worst times, too. Or the best times, maybe. But the times right before Harry finally does something about the _want_ pulsing in him whenever he looks at Zayn. If Zayn were human, it would be easy. Easy to pull him aside sometime and kiss him, to try to melt into his skin and trace all his hard, sharp lines. Sometimes—often, really—he thinks Zayn wants it too, would welcome him. Looks at him with the _want_ as well, touches Harry differently than he does the other, with more purpose.

But he’s not human, is the problem. And it’s not like that freaks Harry out or anything. If anything, it turns him on. He wants to taste the fire burning behind his eyes, wants to find out all the ageless things in that look. But somehow…it doesn’t seem fair. Doesn’t seem fair that Harry would get Zayn, beautiful and otherworldly and magical, and Zayn would just get normal, non-supernatural Harry. He probably has a dragon bride somewhere, Harry’s always assumed. Waiting for when he stops playing at human and goes back to his kind (clan, he had explained once, high and thoughtful with it, blowing smoke rings without a cigarette).

Because that’s the thing. Harry thinks he could do forever with Zayn. Thinks he wants forever. But one of them will leave. Zayn will go back home, or Harry will grow old and Zayn won’t. He won’t get his forever.

But sometimes, when Zayn is giggling with them on the bus, or when he wraps an arm around Harry’s waist as he sings onstage, or when they’re cuddling on a couch sharing earphones, Harry can pretend. Can pretend that they aren’t doomed before they begin. Can pretend that Harry can have his forever.


	49. Chapter 49

_**Prompt: angel/demon AU** _

“I still don’t get why we have to meet in front of a duck pond,” Harry says, when Zayn appears next to him all at once. He does jump, but that’s usual. Harry thinks Zayn gets off on surprising him like that. It’s not fair, really. Harry should be the one who finds scaring people into a heart attack fun. Not that Harry can have a heart attack, but it’s the thought that counts. 

Zayn smiles softly at him in welcome. “Haven’t you read _Good Omens_?” Zayn demands. “I’ve told you to read it a thousand times.”

“Not a thousand.”

“Thousand, one hundred and five,” Zayn corrects, evenly. Honestly, Harry doesn’t know why Zayn didn’t fall. He’s got the pedantry right too. “As in, every time we meet.”

“Well, I still don’t get the duck pond.” Harry gives the ducks a suspicious look. They paddle over, unimpressed by his best demon glare, as Zayn throws bread at them that Harry is certain he didn’t bring with him.  “What’s so special about ducks?”

“Nothing.” Zayn shrugs, and smiles enigmatically. Bloody angels, Harry thinks bitterly. Always so enigmatic. It’s why he likes being a demon, now; he gets to say what he thinks. “It’s nice though, isn’t it?”

Across the pond, two lovers are holding hands over a bridge. Harry glances at them, and they start to fight. Then there’s a hand on his knee, and Harry looks over to Zayn’s stern look. He sighs, and the people stop arguing. Angels. Zayn’s hand pulls back, but it’s like Harry can still feel him burning. He’s the one with hellfire, he doesn’t get it.  

“It’s nice enough,” Harry admits. It’s relaxing, at least. A nice break from hellfire, this idyllic park with plenty of people jogging by to watch. And Zayn next to him, which he always likes. “Pretty.”

“Sure is,” Zayn agrees, and tosses more bread to the ducks rather than look at Harry. Harry has a sudden urge to smite the ducks with lightning, but he figures Zayn would get mad at that, and probably go away and sulk for a decade. For an angel, Zayn has epic sulks.

They sit in silence for a while, Zayn feeding the ducks, Harry watching Zayn feed the ducks.

“So why did you call me here?” Harry asks at last, when the silence gets too long. He tosses his own piece of bread to the ducks. So there, Zayn. He can feed ducks too.

“The ducks are nice, aren’t they?” Zayn says simply. Harry very nobly resists the urge to shake him, and not only because he’s not sure he could. He hates angels with a passion. They never make it clear what they mean. Zayn’s spent a thousand years trying to figure Zayn out, and he still can’t. “You should probably read the book.”

“That’s not an answer, Z—” But Zayn’s gone, in a flutter of invisible wings.

“Goodbye to you too,” Harry mutters. It’s so irritating when Zayn does this, just summons him and then doesn’t have a purpose to it. It’s almost like he just wants to talk to Harry, just wants to be near Harry. But Harry had considered and discarded that idea ages ago. That’s not how angels and demons work, even if they were friends before Harry fell. Not that Harry wants to be near Zayn all the time, or anything.

The two lovers are still holding hands, Harry glares at them, but doesn’t put any heat behind it. Then he tosses another handful of bread to the ducks, and disappears to the scent of brimstone. Maybe he will read the book. Then he’ll summon Zayn, see how he likes it.

Hopefully he’ll like it.


	50. Chapter 50

_**Prompt: noble/peasant au** _

He knows he shouldn’t be watching. It’s beneath his dignity, in the first place, and sketchy in the second. He is a noble of the Realm, a full knight, and he should not be watching stable boys work.

But he is. It’s just hard not too. The boy—not a boy, probably, not much younger than Zayn, for all he’s probably not seen battle like Zayn has, which makes him feel younger—has something about him that makes people look at him. Something past the broad shoulders and wide chest, the toned arse in his tight breeches. Something about the way he smiles, with dimples in his cheeks, when he hands Zayn the reins to his horse, or about how the light catches in his curls, or about how he laughs. 

“Here you are, sir,” the boy—Harry, he does know his name, he knows the name of all the stablehands—says as he hands over the reins to the chestnut stallion Zayn favors. He’s not his—Zayn can’t afford his own horse yet, though hopefully after these wars are over he’ll have earned enough favor from his lord to have a horse and a manor both—but Zayn likes him best, likes the way he takes everything as it comes and is always steady with him. None of the other knights must favor him, though, because somehow he’s always there for Zayn when he’s riding patrol. Or off to battle.

“Thank you,” Zayn says, running a hand over the horse’s flank.

“No problem!” Harry’s eyes widen, and he doesn’t let go of the rein. “I would—I mean, it’s my job.”

“Of course.” It’s his job, of course it is. Zayn probably just makes him wary, with his staring. “Thank you regardless.”

“You’re welcome regardless,” Harry replies. He doesn’t let go of the reins as Zayn moves to take them, sliding his gloved fingers over the leather. Instead, he bites at his lip and looks away, like he’s trying to decide something. Zayn waits. It’s only polite, he supposes. And it’s a time when he’s allowed to look, to take in the stubborn chin and sharp jaw, the broad forehead and the way his eyelashes fan over his cheeks, his full pink lips that purse so nicely.

When Harry looks back at him, Zayn pulls his gaze back to his hands. It’s shameful, the way he’s staring. He can’t do this. He won’t let himself go down that road, will not become one of those nobles who take advantage. He is a knight, and that means something to him, even if it doesn’t to everyone.

“I looked after him myself,” Harry says at last. His fingers are tight over the reins, his knuckles white. It’s like he’s scared, Zayn realizes, though he can’t imagine of what. It’s Zayn who’s going off to battle. “He’s as ready as I can make him. He’ll keep you safe.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say to that, or the look Harry’s giving him, scared and unsure and open. “Thank you,” he says again, because it’s all he can think of to say. Because his other option is kissing that fear out of the boy, and he cannot and will not do that to him. So he tries, “You’ll be safe here,” he tells the boy, “They don’t want the castle, just the borderlands.”

It doesn’t work to chase the fear away, though it does get an incredulous, almost hysterical giggle. “I’m not scared for me,” he says, and lets go of the reins before taking a step back to give Zayn room to mount.

He does, then looks down at Harry. “What do you mean by that?”

Harry hesitates, then grabs Zayn’s hand. It’s the first time they’ve touched, and Zayn swears the shockwave goes all the way up his arm even if it’s not skin to skin. “Come back alive and I’ll tell you,” Harry says, low and fervent, and presses his lips to the knuckles of the glove.

Zayn can only stare, as Harry takes another step back. “Good fortune, my lord!” he murmurs, barely more than a whisper, as the call to arms is sounded, summoning Zayn to the courtyard to form up.

He looks back, once. Harry is standing in front of the stables, watching him with wide eyes. He can look this once, Zayn supposes. Can look once to carry it to war and back, like he’ll carry that freely-given kiss. Will come back, and decide how dear he keeps his honor in the face of big green eyes and a cheerful smile.


	51. Chapter 51

_**Prompt: Seven Minutes in Heaven** _

“Okay, Zaynie, let’s see who your partner is,” Louis laughs, as he spins the bottle. Zayn watches it with drunken—well, tipsy—concentration. Let it land on a friend, he orders it. Someone he can just go into a closet with and do nothing for seven minutes. Not one of the random girls, that would be awkward. Or _please dear God_ not—“Oh look at that. Harry! In you go, you two!” Louis crows. “Have fun!”

Zayn’s breath catches, and he barely has time to glare at Louis before he’s getting shoved in. Then there’s another body behind him, and the door slams shut, so the other person overbalances and nearly lands on Zayn before catching himself on the door above his head.

“Sorry,” Harry mutters. Zayn thinks about answering, but he’s pretty sure he’d have to breathe to do that, and the combination of getting knocked into and Harry fucking Styles being close enough to touch has left him lucky not to be asphyxiating.

Then Harry moves, and Zayn isn’t exactly happy with that, either, though it’s easier to breathe. He can’t really see Harry, even as his eyes are getting used to the light, but he sees a general shadowy figure with a lot of hair settle against the opposite wall. Zayn leans against his, crosses his arms over his chest. He can do this. He can at least pretend to keep his cool. He’s good at that. Maybe not with Harry Styles—student council vice-president, prom king, broad-shouldered dimpled brilliantly smiling Harry Styles who Zayn may or may not have had a crush on for the past two years—but with everyone else.

“So, seven minutes,” Harry says.

“More like six now, probably,” Zayn replies. He’s talking, look at him! It’s probably just because he can’t see Harry, but still, it’s progress.

Harry laughs, though, and there goes all of Zayn’s breath. Harry’s laughing at a joke—well, a comment—he made. He can deal with this. “So, what do you want to do?”

Zayn shrugs. Then he realizes Harry probably can’t see that, so he says, “Dunno.” 

There’s just enough room between them that Zayn can sense Harry shifting, but they don’t touch, and Zayn’s not sure if he’s happy or sad about that. It’s seven minutes in heaven, shouldn’t they be making out already? Shouldn’t Harry at least be trying? Should he be the one trying? Maybe he should—

“If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to,” Harry says suddenly, and Zayn’s head jerks in the direction of his voice. Fuck, his voice. Zayn could write odes to his voice, the thick honeyed drawl of it. Maybe he has written them, but if he has, no one knows except maybe Liam and that’s only because he’s borrowed his notebook before and saw doodles totally on accident. “You can go.”

“What?” Zayn blinks, tries to actually process what Harry said. “I mean—”

“I know you don’t like me much,” Harry rushes on, “And I don’t want—”

“Don’t like you?” Zayn blurts out. No. Cool. He can do this. He swallows, tries to smooth out his voice. “I mean, what makes you think I don’t like you?”

“You never look at me,” Harry says. “And if you do you’re always glaring, and you don’t talk to me even when we’re all hanging out. And I’m not sure what I did to make you not like me—but if it’s, like, staring too long or making you uncomfortable I’m sorry, I’ll try—”

“Staring?” Zayn interrupts again. He’s pretty sure he’d have noticed staring.

 Harry shifts again. “Well, yeah. You know. How I look at you.”

“Look at me?” Zayn really can’t breathe, now.

“You didn’t notice?” Harry asks, clearly incredulous. “I look at you all the time, Zayn.”

“Why?” It comes out hoarse and choked and all sorts of not-cool, but Zayn doesn’t really care.

He feels movement again, and then Harry is next to him, and he is touching this time and Zayn really is going to suffocate, because their knees are bumping together and Harry’s hand is on his cheek and then they’re kissing, Harry’s mouth gentle but firm on his, and it takes Zayn a second but then he gets with the fucking program, and he’s pushing back, his hands in Harry’s curls and his tongue in Harry fucking Style’s mouth. It tastes better than Zayn had ever imagined, sweet like the strawberries he’d been eating, and feels even better than Zayn could ever conceive, even with all his late-night imaginings.

Too soon, Harry draws back an inch. “That’s—”

“I got it,” Zayn retorts, and tightens his hands in Harry’s hair. Harry lets out a sound suspiciously like a moan. “I like you. A lot.” He tugs, and Harry comes back, pushing him against the wall until they’re all pressed together and—

“Seven minutes are up!” Louis announces, throwing open the door.  Zayn squints at the sudden light, and the sudden impact of seeing Harry so close, all kiss-swollen lips and mussed hair and big dimples, for a second at least before he hides his face in Zayn’s neck with an embarrassed squeak. “Oh. Wow.”

Zayn, though—Zayn thinks he can manage being cool all the time, if Harry’s licking at his neck. “Hey, Lou,” he drawls, with his best smirk. “Think we could have seven more minutes?”

Harry mutters something into his ear. “Never mind,” Zayn goes on, and his smirk just widens at Louis’s disgusting expression. “We’re leaving. We’re going to need more than seven minutes.”


	52. Chapter 52

_**Prompt: Idol/fan** _

Harry should have gone to bed, he knows. He really should have. But he’d been working on his paper and then he’d gotten hungry and by the time he’d gotten back to his paper and realized he absolutely needed this one book, it was midnight and the only place to get it might be the all-night café/bookstore down the road.

So it was to there he went, pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt and a beanie against the autumn chill. Maybe he can get some coffee while he’s there.

The place is nearly deserted, just one person working on a paper in the corner and the bored cashier, clearly up later than they’d like, so Harry trudges past the small chairs at the café area and into the shelves. He’s tired, so it takes a few seconds for him to find the right letter, then thank god it’s there so he pulls it out, tucks it under his arm, and turns to go. He’s so ready to get back to his dorm, where at least he can curl up under a blanket and listen to his music—maybe the new Zayn album—as he works, that he takes the corner from his aisle of books into a more major aisle sharply, and would have bumped into someone coming the other way if the other guy hadn’t jumped back.

But he did jump back, and some of his coffee slops onto his shirt and he swears, so Harry has to stop. “Oh, shit, sorry,” he says, as fervently as he can. Which, he is sorry. He just doesn’t want to have to be placating at one am.

“No problem,” the guy says. His head is ducked, and he’s got a beanie on and his shoulders sort of curled in under a big sweatshirt, but Harry feels like he’s seen him before, or maybe heard him. “Should have looked where I was going.”

“Me too, so we’ll split the blame,” Harry agrees with a smile, and edges past him. The guy moves too, shifting his arm so the neck of his sweater gaps open and Harry catches a hint of a collarbone tattoo and _holyshitthattattoo_.

Harry freezes. “You’re Zayn!” he says, before he can stop himself. The guy— _fucking Zayn_ —stops too, then slowly, reluctantly, looks up.

He’s even prettier in person. Harry hadn’t expected that, had always sort of cynically and sadly thought that the pictures must have been airbrushed or something, because no one could be that hot, and he’d never gotten close enough at his concerts to see. But he is even prettier, his eyelashes longer, his cheekbones sharper, his lips pinker, his eyes gold-er, even with a beanie shoved on over his head.

“Shit,” Zayn swears. Zayn. Is swearing in Harry’s direction. He needs to text everyone he knows this, immediately. He got sworn at—well, not really, sort of sworn in the general area of—by Zayn Malik, who is only the best new artist of the year, totally a shoe in for the Grammy, whose album Harry has on repeat on his ipod. “Shit. Yeah, obviously. Um, hi?”

He gives a sort of sheepish wave.

“You’re Zayn,” Harry repeats. It’s not really processing. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“No one is, it’s sort of the point.” Zayn looks tired, Harry thinks. He’s beautiful, but there are dark circles under his eyes. Which only makes sense, because he’s been on tour for the past six months, with appearances almost every day and he’s still putting his all into everyone, as Harry knows given the amount of time he spends on his tag on Tumblr. “So, like, I’ll sign anything, or I’ll pay or whatever, just please don’t tell people?”

Harry’s hand stills on his phone. “Of course! You don’t have to pay or anything.” He does a quick inventory of what Zayn could sign, but he thinks suggesting his dick might not go over well. Or it might. No one’s ever really confirmed his sexuality, for all there have been rumors. Harry would totally be down for confirming those rumors. “Just—a picture, maybe? That I can post after? I’m a massive fan, really.”

He can almost hear Zayn debating, but Harry gives him his most charming, most trustworthy smile, and Zayn shuffles forward, shoves his beanie back so his face is more visible. He slides a hand around Harry’s waist, puts their heads together so their ears are touching. Harry’s ear is touching Zayn’s skin. He’s pretty sure he’s hard from just that.

Harry fumbles his phone out of his pocket, holds it in front of them, and clicks.

Zayn doesn’t let go right away, and Harry’s pretty sure the mark of his hand on Harry’s waist has been branded there. “Check it,” he urges. “We can take another if it’s bad.”

Harry’s not sure there’s such thing as a bad picture when Zayn’s in it, but he does check. It’s disappointingly good, because otherwise Zayn could touch him longer, but he nods and steps away. But Harry doesn’t want to just let him leave. This is magic, this is fate. “Do you need help looking for something? I’m in here a lot.”

“Nah. Just picking up a new copy of Tolkien, left my last one…somewhere.” Zayn shrugs sheepishly. He reads Tolkien. Harry’d always sort of wondered if the pseudo-intellectual thing was an image thing, but—he is going out at midnight to get a new copy of Tolkien. “Thanks, though. And really, thanks for not telling everyone. Trying to get some rest, you know?”

“Yeah. Your tour’s been great, though! Everyone thinks so.”

“Almost everyone,” Zayn corrects with a rueful smile. “But thanks. That’s what makes it worthwhile.”

“I mean it, though. I got tickets last time you were nearby, it was an awesome show.” Harry grins, and he thinks he’s allowed some light flirting, Zayn’s probably used to it. “Especially when you almost got your shirt ripped off.”

It startles a laugh out of Zayn, and Harry’s eyes almost close of their own accord to savor the sound. It’s a little high-pitched, almost a giggle, and it’s adorable. Why did no one ever say Zayn was adorable? Harry is going right on Tumblr and starting a new tag. “Thanks,” he says again, with a bright smile. “Everyone did seem to like that show, can’t imagine why.”

“I can,” Harry retorts, and gets another laugh. He needs to leave now, before he says something to offend, because he does that a lot. “I’ll let you go back into hiding now. Thanks for the picture, and all.”

“’s my job,” Zayn replies, but with a smile that makes it mean more ‘no problem’ than ‘I’m only doing it because I have to’. Then he bites at his lip, and holy shit Harry is putting that up there with fantasies to wank off to. “Doesn’t seem fair, though, that you can’t brag about this and all until it’s too late.”

“No, it doesn’t—”

“How about this. You give me your number.” Harry’s pretty sure he has a heart attack. “IF you don’t share the photo, let me have my time, I’ll get in touch when I’m back on the road, get you a backstage pass to a show.”

Harry presses a hand to his heart. “Really?”

“Yeah, that’ll work,” Zayn says to himself, and pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Number?”

Harry recites his number blindly. His phone number is in Zayn Malik’s phone. This is—there is no way he is going to keep this a secret. He is going to keep this the most secret ever because then he will get to see Zayn again and flirt more.

“Great.” Zayn slides his phone into his pocket, and gives another one of those slow, slightly hesitant smiles that Harry’s never seen on stage but wants to see all the time. “I’ll talk to you in a couple days then…”

“Harry,” Harry fills in. “Harry Styles.”

“Harry Styles,” Zayn repeats. Harry very consciously makes an effort not to swoon at Zayn Malik saying his name. “Cute name.”

“I like it,” Harry manages to get out, and it gets him another one of those smiles before Zayn is slipping out the door. Harry stares after him. He is not going to survive the next week.  


	53. Chapter 53

_**Prompt: online relationship** _

“Are you sure this is safe?” Liam asks, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Zayn rolls his eyes from the passenger seat, but because Liam is driving, so he doesn’t have to tell his mom or his sisters, he answers, for the thousandth time,

“It’s fine, Liam. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s just, you’ve never actually met him.”

“You think I didn’t think of that?” He had, obviously. He’s heard all the horror stories, all the people catfished and bullied. He’d been waiting for the punch line for the first month of talking to Harry, actually, kept waiting for Harry to set him up for a joke so everyone at school could laugh at him.

But then—he hadn’t. He’d just been sweet, and funny, and he’d listened. He’d let Zayn talk at him about comics and art and books, and Zayn found that he wasn’t bored when he was listening to Harry talk about music or, well anything. And Harry had brought up his feelings first, started talking about feeling like a loner at his school even though he had a lot of friends, about how it felt like people had an image of him they couldn’t shake. It was only then that Zayn, slowly, had started to share his own worries—about how people saw him, about how he wasn’t good enough, about how he’d been bullied and all.

Even, then, though, he’d been wary, when Harry proposed meeting. He’d googled him as soon as he got a last name to check, and everything seemed to check out—Harry Styles, from Holmes Chapel, newly transplanted to Bradford, really fit with his dimples and hair. It was him, Zayn was sure of it.

“I’ll be fine,” he repeats, though, because Liam needs to hear it. Because he needs to hear it too, he thinks. What if Harry is disappointed with him in person? What if he says something wrong, because it’s always easier for him to write out his thoughts than say them? What if this is all a really elaborate joke? “I’ve got you here and the police on speed dial, and I won’t go anywhere with him if he seems sketchy or anything.” Liam sighs, clearly not satisfied. “I’m not stupid, Li. I’m not going to put myself in danger.”

“I know.” Liam’s still looking at him with big worried eyes. “I just…I’ll be here, you know? If it’s not like you hoped.”

“I know.” He does know, which is why he’s putting up with this worrying. Even if it seems like Liam is expecting this to go wrong too. It has to, right? It has to go wrong. He won’t really like Zayn. He’ll think he’s weird and geeky and too quiet. He’s cool, Zayn’s gathered, can talk to anyone and make people like him, but people don’t like Zayn like that, not right away, and neither will he. Zayn always does this, gets too invested, falls to fast, and it’s not like he really knows Harry…“Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

“Zayn…” Liam trails off, pointedly.

“He won’t like me. It’s better we just stay as we are,” Zayn says, leaning back in his chair rather than looking out at the café where they’re supposed to meet. “That’s better. I won’t go.”

“Zayn.” Liam turns in his seat, and gives him that steady, intent look that always reminds Zayn of why they’re best friends. “He’ll be lucky to have you. Promise.”

“But…” He swallows. “I don’t know…”

“Oh, go.” Liam reaches over Zayn to open his door, then actually shoves him out. “I’ll be here, in case.”

“Li!” Zayn yelps as he tries to get his footing, but Liam’s slamming the door behind him and driving down the road faster than Zayn could chase and not look like an idiot.

Shit. It looks like he’s stuck. No, this is good. He glances at his reflection in a car window—his quiff is still good, his stubble is trimmed nothing’s in his teeth, and tugs at the button down he’s chosen, unbuttoning the top button. He debates another, but that’d be weird.

Okay, he can do this. He can. He rolls his shoulders back, and walks over to the café.

He’s late, of course—Harry knows that, though, he’d told Harry how no matter what he does he’s fifteen minutes late to everything, and Harry had laughed—well, loled—and said it was fine, he never minded waiting—so Harry should be there. He scans the outside seats, and he thinks he’d recognize Harry from his picture, or at least the silly headscarves he wears, and—there. In the corner. Bent over his phone, probably.

One more deep breath, then Zayn strides over. Harry’s intent on his phone, but it gives Zayn time to look, and what on earth is he doing looking for people online? He’s adorable, really fucking fit, and Zayn wants to tug on his curls and cuddle with him forever.

But first they have to talk. Actually, talk. So Zayn clears his throat, and Harry jumps, turns. Then his eyes widen. “Shit!” he says. Then blushes a bright, bright red. “I mean, sorry, hi, it’s just you’re even hotter in person, I didn’t expect that. Sorry, did that make it awkward?”

Zayn’s grinning, he can’t help it. He likes Harry’s voice, the slow, thoughtful drift of it. He likes how Harry is looking at him, like he’s pleased with what he’s seen. “Nah, so are you,” he says, and sits down. His voice doesn’t seem to have weirded Harry out yet, because he’s still looking at him, and now his lips—fuck, they hadn’t looked so full in the picture—are curving into a smile. “I think it was going to be awkward anyway.”

“Not if we don’t let it,” Harry announces, and grabs Zayn’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you in person, Zayn.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. Harry’s hand is covering his, and it feels warm and right there. Like it’s meant to be. “I mean, you too.”


	54. Chapter 54

_**Prompt: Anonymous Love Letters** _

The first note is tucked into his coat pocket. _I think you’re beautiful_ , it says, in very careful neat print, clearly trying to disguise itself, or at least be anonymous. Zayn looks it all over, trying to identify it, but he’s got nothing, and it’s not like he’s aware enough of everyone walking close to him to notice who might have slipped it in.

He asks Louis, of course, because if anyone’s going to start a prank like this, it’d be Louis, but Louis just shakes his head. He asks the other boys, too, just to make sure, but Liam shrugs and asks why, and Niall just laughs, and Harry gives him a wide-eyed look that makes Zayn sorry for even questioning him. (Zayn isn’t disappointed about that, at all, he tells himself. It’s not like Harry would ever—not like.)

Perrie says no, and all her girls, and that she hasn’t heard anything. Niall asks around and gets nothing too. So in the end, he shrugs it off, smiles at the note, and tucks it into a drawer on his desk. 

—-

The next note says _I could write poems to your eyes_ , and is in his pocket again. A week later, is _Your back is a love song_. A few days after that comes _I dream about your voice_ , then three days later comes _I would lick all your tattoos_. None of the notes are invasive, really, or more dirty than a little twinge, so usually they make Zayn smile. And go a bit crazy trying to figure out who’s sending them.

“Everyone thinks you’re hot, Zayn,” Liam tells him, when he’s informing the others of his progress. “Don’t think it narrows things down.”

“Yeah, but, this isn’t just hot,” Harry argues. He’s leaning back against Zayn’s legs, because they don’t have enough chairs, and Zayn feels absolutely nothing about the way Harry tilts his head back to dimple up at Zayn. “He—this person—said beautiful, right? That’s different.”

“Aw, babe,” Louis drawls, and reaches over basically into Zayn’s lap to ruffle his hair. “You think someone’s beautiful?”

“Not you,” Harry retorts. He’s not smiling anymore, though. “Zayn is, though.”

—-

The next note is _I love the way you see the world_ , which Zayn figures is a reference to his art. Then comes _you’re smarter than anyone I know_ , which is a bit of an exaggeration but still makes Zayn smile. _I want to know the places you go when you read_ , comes a few days later.

“It’s sweet,” Zayn tells the boys that night, “Like, I don’t know why they’re saying it, but it’s nice.”

“Because you don’t think it,” Harry says. He’s on the couch next to Zayn this time, his toes tucked under Zayn’s thighs. His face is very serious. “Not that I know who’s doing this, obviously, but they’re probably trying to remind you.”

Zayn ducks his head to hide his smile, because no one’s sweeter than Harry, really. “Well, you’re wonderful too,” he says, quietly.

“Get a room, you two,” Niall snorts, and throws a pillow. When Zayn steals another look at Harry, he’s looking down at his thumbs.

—-

 It goes on for weeks. Zayn didn’t know there were that many nice things to say about him, but his…secret admirer, Louis calls him, never repeats one. Everything from _I love how you drum your fingers_ to _I want to wipe the paint off your cheek_ to _you’re the kindest person in the world_. It’s so very very sweet, and Zayn has no idea who it is.

“I just want to know!” Zayn moans. Harry is petting his hair, and it feels very nice, but he’s also very, very confused. Just, he’s been sort of kind of in love with Harry for a year, and now there’s this—and it’s almost as sweet as Harry. It makes Zayn feel really, just—really nice. Really sure, in a way he doesn’t feel often, when he’s busy doubting himself and trying to figure out what he’s doing.

“How much does it matter?” Harry asks, slowly. “Like, aren’t the notes enough?”

“Well, yeah. But I’d like to meet them. Thank them.”

“That all?” Harry asks, teasing. Zayn reaches up to bat at his face, and Harry laughs and catches his hand. “Well, is it?”

“Yeah?” Zayn wrinkles his nose. “Like, I think…” It’s hard, to think about this, when he’s looking at Harry too, and Harry’s trying so hard to help him think this through. “I mean, I don’t really know them, so I can’t say anything.”

“Right,” Harry agrees. He’s still holding Zayn’s hand, both of his around one of Zayn’s.

—-

_I think I’ve loved you since I met you_ , is the next note, and this one is tucked into his pocket. It’s a little closer than Zayn is entirely comfortable with. And then comes _Seeing you is like coming home_ , in the pages of his sketchbook. And _Every time I touch you it feels like electricity_.

When Zayn poses his question to Liam, Liam just shakes his head. “Really, Zayn?” he asks. Zayn doesn’t get it.

The next one is _How are you so smart and so blind?_ which Zayn takes a bit of offense at, really. Then _Never mind I didn’t mean it_ , which makes Zayn giggle a little.

“It’s cute,” Zayn tells Harry, when they’re cuddling on the couch, because Harry wanted to show him a new band he had found. “Like, kind of creepy, because the notes are getting put really close, but I don’t know…” Harry’s gaping at him. From this close, it’s really obvious. “What?”

“Oh my god!” Harry shoves him off, so Zayn falls back on the couch. “Honestly? Really, Zayn?”

“What?” Zayn’s never really seen like Harry like that, his hands on his hips, his face bright with anger, or maybe frustration. “What, Haz, I’m sorry, what did I—”

“You really don’t get it?” Harry demands. “You really don’t know? No guesses, really?”

“What—no? I mean, it’s someone I know, and who knows me, but—”

Harry turns on his heel, storms over to his bag, and pulls something out of his bag. A piece of paper, to be exact. One Zayn recognizes.

“Harry?” He hadn’t imagined. Hadn’t let himself imagine.

“It wasn’t supposed to last this long. I just started it because—well, I wanted to. It wasn’t—it was just supposed to be because you were getting down on yourself, that’s all. But then—why didn’t you figure it out?” Harry glances down, away from Zayn. Zayn thinks he’ll get up soon, when he figures out how. “I’m not subtle, Zayn. I know I’m not.”

Slowly, Zayn manages to get to his feet. “Did you mean them?”

“What?”

“The notes. Did you mean them?”

“Of course.” Harry says it fiercely, like a dare. “All of them.”

“You love me?”

“Yes! Obviously! Do you want more notes?” Harry shifts forward, or back, or something, and Zayn—Harry wrote all those lovely notes. Sweet, wonderful Harry, who loves him.

Zayn lunges forward, grabs the paper out of Harry’s hands, and turns to the wall to scribble on it, then turns back to Harry and turn it over.

Harry looks down at the paper, then up at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Not just cause of—”

“No.”

“But—” Zayn stops Harry’s mouth by tripping over to him and kissing him. The note flutters to the floor.

_I love you too_.


	55. Chapter 55

_**Prompt: Superhero AU ([Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7567696/chapters/17216251))**_

It all happens in an instant. One minute they’re fighting the latest villain—The Mad Hatter, which Harry’s not sure has any real reason because he’s not wearing a hat—and they do they’re practiced move, where Niall drops Zayn behind the villain while Louis and Liam distract him, then Zayn grabs his temples.

“Sleep,” Zayn says, as he always does, in that firm but gentle voice he uses that Harry’s sure, when it’s turned to him, he’d do anything to obey.

That’s usually the end of it. But The Mad Hatter—doesn’t. He grabs Zayn’s temples in return, and, with a wild laugh, retorts, “How ‘bout you?”

Then Zayn collapses, and Harry’s world stops.

It restarts quickly—he is a hero, after all—but for a single instant Harry’s sure Zayn’s dead and he’s equally sure he is going to kill this person. Then The Mad Hatter laughs again and bounces up and away, and Niall shoots off after him, hooking Louis behind the elbows to go. Harry runs too—right to Zayn. He’s breathing, thank you thank you thank you, but his eyes are wide open and unseeing and his pulse is rabbit-quick and even when Harry shakes him he doesn’t do anything.

He can feel Liam hovering behind him, but, “Go,” Harry calls out, “I’ve got him, go.”

Liam nods, and runs. Leaving Harry to gather Zayn’s limp body up into his arms and carry him to a sidestreet, where he won’t have to defend them. Zayn still hasn’t moved. This is not how Harry pictured, in the deepest recesses of his mind where Zayn couldn’t find them without looking, the first time he’d carry Zayn. (he might have thought about wedding days and thresholds, or at least frantic kisses and a bed). But instead he gets this.

“Zayn,” he says, and doesn’t get a response. “Zayn!” Still nothing. He’s awake. He’s just…lost.

They’d all known this could happen. It happened once before, Zayn had told them long ago, when he was a kid and just figuring out his powers. He’d open his mind too wide and get lost, wouldn’t be able to find his way through all the people-thoughts-feelings back to himself. His mum had brought him back, that time, he had warned. Harry thought back to the telling, when they had just formed into a group. He’d still been wary of Zayn then, before Zayn had taught them to build shields so he wouldn’t hear everything, before he had known Zayn wouldn’t pry. He’s still not sure how Zayn missed—or maybe ignored—the surge of _lust-want_ that had hit him the first time he’d seen Zayn.

But then, they had all been on the couches. Zayn had had a headache, so his head was in Harry’s lap, and he was stroking his forehead and trying to think _comfort-ease-calm_ at him, and the other boys were around them. ‘she reminded me who I was’, Zayn had said, then. ‘Gave me an anchor.’

Harry looks down at his wrist, at the anchor inked there. It’s not what it had meant, when he got it—but it can mean it now.

“Zayn, I don’t know if you can hear me,” he starts, slowly. He’s not sure how to do this. But it’s Zayn, so it’s not words out loud. It’d taken him weeks to realize of course Zayn hardly ever spoke out loud. Why would he have to? But Harry needs the words, this once. “But you need to come back. Come back to us.”

He pulls him up, rests their foreheads together, and thinks of Zayn.

Thinks of the little boy lost who had come to the tower first after Simon had put them together, more scared than any of them. Thought of the way he carried quiet with him, always, so whenever Harry got too caught up or wild he could always sink back into the calm Zayn always projected. Thought of the way he smiled, so you didn’t need empathy to feel happy whenever he did, or proud when you made it happen. Thought of Zayn reading in a windowsill with light golden around him, of Zayn laughing as Liam chased him and Louis around the tour, always a second out of reach because he knew what you were doing as you did. Of Zayn letting Niall talk when he needed it and never pushing. Of the way he was with animals, and how they always came to him. Of children, and how no matter how afraid they got sometimes of the flashier powers he could always soothe them, and loved them. About how he never begrudged any of them their emotions even when it hit too hard. Of his anger, too, the way he could hold a grudge. The way he never talked about his own emotions, sometimes forgot the others didn’t have empathy to match and know what he needs.

(he doesn’t let everything go, keeps up some walls. It’s not time for how he aches when Zayn is near but not touching, or how he wants to touch all the time. For how he thinks he’d do anything for him, would go looking for the moon if he asked and smiled. For how the _love_ he thinks at him isn’t all he holds).

Zayn still isn’t moving. Harry swallows. No. he can do this. He will be enough to bring Zayn back.

But Zayn won’t come back for himself. He never does, stupid self-sacrificing martyr, Harry realizes. So this time he thinks of Zayn’s family, laughing and loud and loving, all of them so beautiful and warm. Thinks of the city, the place they’ve sworn to protect. Thinks of them, the team, all of them piled on a couch like puppies, laughing as they watched TV, Louis snarking and Zayn adding his own commentary and Niall laughing at them and Liam trying to shush them and Harry trying to hear the TV. Thinks of the smile Zayn gets when he’s around them, when Harry’s pretty sure he’s at his happiest.

_Come back to us_ , he thinks, clearly, his hands framing Zayn’s face, almost like a kiss— _no no bury that_ — _we need you_.

And Zayn—blinks. “Harry?” he says, hoarsely. “Harry?”

“Zayn!” Harry grabs him, wraps his arms around him and feels him hug back, and it’s the best feeling in the world.  


	56. Chapter 56

_**Prompt:** **having some “private time” and the other accidentally walking in (explicit)** _

It never would have happened if Harry hadn’t forgotten his wallet. It’s funny, really, because Harry’s not usually forgetful, usually always tucks his keys and his wallet and his phone into his pockets before he goes out like clockwork, so the fact that he doesn’t on that day is surprising. Almost like the universe is telling them something.

But the fact remains he does. He forgets his wallet, and so he has to stop back into the apartment between class and dinner rather than going to the library like he always does. He’s pretty sure Zayn is home, but he’s only going to be a minute, just a dash in and out, so he doesn’t both to call out anything as he walks down the hallways to his room. He glances into Zayn’s room, with it’s door slightly ajar, by habit more than anything—then he can’t move.

Zayn’s on the bed, his legs spread. He’s shirtless, got jeans on but pushed down so his cock is thick and heavy and hard and obvious, and he’s got a hand on it, moving up and down slowly, teasingly, as his other hand pinches at a nipple and he arches back into it.

Harry’s breath literally catches. He shouldn’t be seeing this. Not only because it’s generally wrong but because Zayn’s a private person generally, the only reason they’ve managed as roommates for four months is because Harry makes it a point to give him his space, not to push into every corner of his life like he wants to. And this—this is the most private corner ever.

And yet. And yet, Zayn is so fucking beautiful on a normal day, and now—now he’s breathtaking, enough that Harry has to put a hand on the wall to steady himself, as Zayn gives himself another long, slow stroke, and twists at his nipple. His eyes are closed, or else he’d see Harry, but his mouth is slack and Harry can see his breath start to come quick, and the only thing Harry wants more than to know what Zayn is thinking about right now is to be allowed to touch. Zayn or himself, he’s not sure.

Zayn’s hand leaves his nipple, and his legs spread even wider, bending at the knees as his other hand goes between them. Harry bites down on his own hand to muffle his groan as Zayn cants his hips and his head goes back like he can’t hold in his pleasure, and he’s making the most lovely noises, these little hoarse breaths. His hand is moving faster now over his cock, he’s probably on the edge from his own fingers in him, what would it be like if they were Harry’s? If his legs were spread open so Harry could fit between them, could kiss the moans out of his mouth and give his nipples the attention they deserved and open him up so slowly, like he seemed to like it, a slow tease. He’d fuck him like that too, slow enough that Zayn would be begging before he was through, or until Harry’s control snapped. He’d—

Zayn’s eyes open, all of a sudden, like he had heard the thoughts, and suddenly brown eyes with their pupils so blown they look mainly black are looking right at Harry, and Harry—doesn’t have time to hide.

He could say something clever, about how he just paused for a second. Something silly to defuse the tension. Something that would let him run away and only come out of his room after maybe a year of wanking off so he could look at Zayn again without going hard immediately.

But Zayn is still just lying there, hand on his dick, fingers in his ass, and—

“Need a hand?” Harry asks. His voice is raspy, and he almost winces at the clichéd line, but all the blood he usually used to think is probably in his dick right now.

Zayn doesn’t seem to care. He’s still fucking himself back on his fingers, and Harry’s fist clenches. “I’d like more than just that,” Zayn gets out. Harry’s moving before he finishes the sentence. 


	57. Chapter 57

_**Prompt: Stuck Someplace Together in Winter** _

Zayn is sulking. Harry can tell, because even if Zayn’s hard to read, Harry’s spent years figuring out how to read him, and he knows the set of his shoulders and the way his teeth are pressed together, even from the back. And even if he didn’t, he probably would have figured it out after ten minutes of Zayn staring out of the window of their cabin at the falling snow.

“It’s not that bad,” Harry tries, finally, when the silence gets to be too much for him. He tucks his feet under the blanket and spreads it over his shoulders.

“Not too bad?” Zayn glares at the window—Harry can see it reflected back at him—then twists on the couch to look at Harry incredulously. “We’re snowed in, Harry! Liam and Louis and Niall are stuck down at the lodge! There’s no power! Cell service is going out! I don’t see what’s not bad about it!”

“We have heat?” Harry suggests. It does sound bad, when put like that, but they know the other three are fine, and there’s heat and food even if there’s isn’t electricity, and Zayn is wearing Harry’s sweater because he had decided it was the warmest thing in the house other than the one Harry was already wearing and he felt cold, even if he knew it wasn’t. “Neither of us is injured?” We’re together, he wants to say, but he’s not sure how Zayn would take that. He’s not entirely sure he wants to know if that would be enough consolation.

Zayn lets out a long breath. “Okay, fair,” he admits. He’s fiddling with the sleeve of Harry’s sweater, because it’s a little too long. “But still, it’s not good, Hazza.”

“’cause you keep sulking.” This should be romantic, Harry wants to point out, again. The two of them, stuck in their own little cabin. They could be having so much sex, without anyone to disturb them like there always is in the dorms. They could be cuddling in front of the fire. Well, if either of them knew how to start a fire. They could be watching the snow fall.

Another sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m just annoyed.”

“I know.” Harry gives him a hopeful look, opens his arms. “Come be annoyed over here.”

“Can’t be annoyed over there,” Zayn retorts, but he’s chuckling, and he comes over, settles down next to Harry and rests his head on his shoulder. This is what Harry wanted, yes. He moves the blanket so it’s over both of them, like they have their own little nest, and presses a kiss onto Zayn’s temple.

“Better?”

“No,” Zayn shoots back, but Harry knows he’s lying, because he can hear the smile in his voice, and he can feel Zayn’s breath slow and soft and steady against his cheek. “You should probably kiss me more to make me feel better.”

“I can do that,” Harry agrees, because kissing Zayn is his favorite tried and true method of coaxing Zayn out of his moods. He leans over, tilts Zayn’s head to a good angle, and kisses him on the lips. “Better?”

“Not for that,” Zayn’s lips curve into a smirk, and his eyes are dancing. “Think you need to try harder.”

“Bad pun, Malik,” Harry replies, but he does as he’s told, kissing Zayn long and hard, until Zayn’s more in his lap than not and the blanket is only over them incidentally.

“There,” Harry says again, pulling back. “Better?”

Zayn’s lips are swollen pink, and his cheeks are flushed, and Harry’s sweater is hanging awkwardly off of him where it got in the way of Harry’s lips.

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees with one of his gentle, fond smiles that Harry likes to keep just for him, and turns so he can lie back against Harry, so they’re both facing out to the falling snow. “Guess it’ll do.”


	58. Chapter 58

_**Prompt: bending over seductively to pick something up for the other** _

It has been eight days, seven hours, thirty-five minutes, and some amount of seconds, and Harry is tired of this shit.

It’s all well and good for Zayn to talk about ‘giving themselves time to think about things’ and ‘the transition between friends to lovers is complicated and shouldn’t be rushed, Haz.’ Zayn is the sort of person who thinks about things, who turns them over and over in his mind until he at least reaches a decision, and then he won’t change it. Harry knows this. Harry loves it about him, the staunchness with which he keeps his decisions.

But this isn’t complicated. Yes, they’re best friends. Yes, it might weird the rest of their friends out. Yes, if they break up things could get awkward. Harry doesn’t care. Zayn is smart and funny and wonderful and the hottest person Harry’s ever seen, and Harry has thought that since he met him first year and that’s not likely to change, and he’s seen the way Zayn looks at him and he’s not going to let that change, and that is all there is, so really this whole not having sex thing is not okay.

Especially because it’s not like Zayn’s avoiding him. They’re hanging out like usual, all of them studying in the same room, and Zayn’s been being all him and hot and tempting all week, doing irresistibly sexy things like chewing on his pencils and pursing his lips and laughing and breathing.  Harry’s really had enough of it. Zayn’s biting his lip now, as they stand next to each other waiting for Liam to come back from fetching Niall out of the bar, and it’s not fair. Harry wants to bite his lip.

Instead, he does the clever thing, and inches closer, until their arms are brushing, and Harry can hook his pinky finger into Zayn’s.

“Hey,” he says. Seductively. It’s a seductive word.

“Hey,” Zayn says back. Harry was right, it’s a very seductive word, especially when it’s Zayn’s lips shaping it, pink against the stubble on his cheeks. Most anything Zayn would say at this point would be a seductive word, but still. Zayn’s not looking at him.

So Harry takes another step closer, so their arms are properly touching, skin to skin. It’s not like they’ve never stood like this before, and like before, Harry’s arm is hot-cold-hot from the press of Zayn’s skin.

Zayn must feel it too, because he pulls his arm away, digs in his pocket for a cigarette and lighter. But no. Harry will not watch Zayn’s cheeks hollow around a cigarette, because that is a sort of torture he only likes to do to himself under certain circumstances, and this is not one.

“Should we talk about it?” Harry asks, and Zayn fumbles with the cigarette he’s drawing out of the pack.

“Now?”

“Sometime!” Harry lets his hand slide behind Zayn’s back, across the edge of his jeans until it hits the other hip. Zayn’s shivering against him. “But yeah, now would be good, please?”

“I haven’t…”

“Please?” Harry asks, interrupting him, because too often Zayn putting something off is bad news and he refuses to hear bad news, so instead he lets his nails dig into Zayn’s hip, just a bit.

Zayn swears, and the lighter falls from his fingers to the ground. Perfect.

“Let me get that for you,” Harry says, with his sweetest smile, and leans down from the hips. He knows Zayn likes his ass, knows how good it looks in his tight jeans that he may or may not (had) chosen just for that, because even before this had started he had known how much Zayn liked it. He thinks he hears Zayn swear again as he takes his sweet time grabbing the lighter, then straightens slowly, rolling his hips as he does.

He smiles at Zayn again as he offers him the lighter. “Here!”

Zayn’s eyes are a little glazed, a little sheepish. “Yeah,” he says, and takes the lighter back. But he just slips it into his pocket. “Yeah, I guess we’d better.”

“Talk?”

Zayn turns, takes a quick step so he’s in front of Harry, and leaning in. “That too,” he says against Harry’s lips, and Harry knew this whole waiting and talking thing was bullshit.  


	59. Chapter 59

_**Prompt:** **pinning the other against a wall** _

He wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t drunk, Harry thinks. Insists to himself. He really wouldn’t. He knows he’s not supposed to. But he’s drunk and the club is dark and Zayn is so fucking pretty in the bright flashing lights, making his cheekbones sharp lines and his hair infinitely black and his eyes glint gold and shadows and his smile is like a knife. A knife into Harry’s heart, because it’s not being pointed at Harry, it’s being pointed at some other girl who is smiling prettily at Zayn, and Harry knows it doesn’t matter, that Zayn doesn’t care about pretty girls smiling at him, but Harry does. Harry cares about pretty girls smiling at Zayn because then Zayn smiles back and Harry hates Zayn giving him smiles away, because he had to work hard for those smiles at the beginning and when someone else gets them easy as anything it’s so unfair, and Harry’s not allowed to get those smiles here where people can see them, and it makes Harry’s chest hurt.

It’s easy enough to go over there, to smile and say something charming and nonsensical because he’s good at that, and to get Zayn away. Zayn might give him a weird look but he goes, because he always does when Harry wants him, always comes if Harry needs him and makes Harry so fucking happy and that’s what he should be doing, not making that other girl happy.

“What’s up, Haz?” Zayn asks, raising an eyebrow as Harry leads him away with a hand on his shoulder, “I might have wanted to talk to her.”

“Did you?”

“Not really. But you really shouldn’t—” It’s lucky they’re in a dark corner, because Harry would have done it anyway, would have spun Zayn around and pinned him to the wall with two hands on either side of his head and his thigh in between Zayn’s.

“You shouldn’t have been smiling,” he says, petulantly. Zayn’s looking at him with big but not surprised eyes. “It’s unfair.”

“Really? Should I not smile ever again?” Zayn asks, with something that Harry thinks is a smirk, and why is he making fun of Harry when Harry has a very valid point?

“Only at me,” he mutters, and pushes closer, so they’re pressed together. Zayn’s not smaller, because he’s only an inch or two shorter, but sometimes Harry remembers that he is slighter, that he doesn’t have the muscle Harry’s worked so hard to build, his bulk. Zayn’s all weedy strength, but that doesn’t help much when Harry outweighs him and can hold him here, against him.

“Whatever you say, babe,” Zayn drawls, and he’s got his Harry is being ridiculous smile on even though Harry is the one holding him here, and it’s Harry’s smile the one he uses just for Harry so Harry has to kiss him, even though they’re sort of in public and it could all go wrong.

Maybe, in the dark corner, they just look like two normal lads, Zayn’s hands on his face drawing him in and Harry’s still braced on the wall. They’re so close together it feels like they’re one person, and that Zayn’s belt buckle will imprint into Harry’s skin, or maybe the tattoos on his hips will leap onto Harry’s skin and ink them together forever. Maybe someone looking at them would just see Harry’s hair and Zayn’s arms and just think they were two boys who wanted each other, two boys who breathed in each other’s air like it was all they needed to survive.

“We shouldn’t,” Zayn finally pants, into the sliver of distance he puts between their mouths. He smells like sweat and smoke and Zayn, like he tastes. He doesn’t move except to run his fingers over Harry’s cheeks. “Not here.”

Harry just kisses him again. Maybe people will see them. Maybe they’ll see two boys in love.

****


	60. Chapter 60

_**Prompt: leaving hickeys on the other’s neck** _

Harry has a bruise on his neck, and it’s driving Zayn insane.

It shouldn’t be. It’s not like they’re exclusive, like they’ve even put words to the way they sometimes tumble into hotel rooms together, high on post-show adrenaline, or how sometimes late at night in a far away country one of them will come to the other and cuddle into them for long, slow kisses. They don’t talk about it, ever, and sometimes Harry goes out and pulls and sometimes Zayn does and sometimes they mention it offhand and the other one laughs and that’s how it works.

But he isn’t even hiding it this time, Zayn thinks, watching Harry where he’s lying on the couch of the bus, listening to music. Zayn’s supposed to be reading, should be really, but instead Harry keeps on distracting him. It’s just there, a bit of swollen skin at his neck, and Harry isn’t even wearing a scarf or a high necked shirt or anything. It’s like he’s flaunting it, Zayn growls to himself, and turns a page decisively when Harry tilts his head back to stretch, making it even more obvious.

It’s just—he can’t stop thinking about it, about who else might have left it there. It’s not like Harry to be careless like that, to let people mark him up when they’ve all had millions of lectures about it, so they must have been special. A pretty girl, all curves and  curls and adoring looks, maybe, with tits that could fill Harry’s hands and soft skin for him to bury his face in. Or maybe a tall, muscled man, who could hold Harry down as he bit into his skin and made him squirm. Or maybe—or maybe—

It’s irritating enough that Zayn gets up, hoping to sleep it off. Harry grins at him when he leaves, like it’s nothing. Like he has no idea what he’s doing. Which he doesn’t, Zayn reminds himself, and throws himself into his bunk for a nap.

Sleeping doesn’t help. Lou does her best to cover it for the show that night, but Zayn knows it’s there, underneath the cover-up. Knows it’s there because at least once he can’t help himself, slides a hand around Harry’s neck like they always do when talking onstage and presses, just to see if Harry winces. He does. Zayn pulls away and goes to play with Liam, for a while, because Liam doesn’t have bruises that drive him insane.

That night, Harry comes to Zayn’s room. Zayn had purposefully not gone to his, didn’t want to give into the insanity building in him, but when Harry knocks and gives him that smile, the knowing sly one that is always their cue, and he’s got on tight jeans and an open collared shirt and Zayn really can’t be held responsible.

He pulls him in, yanks him in by the wrist, and Harry laughs wildly when Zayn pushes him onto the bed, climbs on top of him to keep him there. He kisses Harry messily, all teeth and his tongue thrusting in and out of Harry’s mouth, none of the sweet they sometimes start with. He needs this now, needs Harry moaning under him like he can make him, needs to feel Harry’s dick pressing against his jeans and to know that he gets this tonight.

Harry does moan, groaning mutters of ‘Zayn Zayn Zayn’ that make Zayn want to growl and press them back into his skin, so he does, biting down Harry’s neck—the opposite side as the other bruise. When he gets exactly opposite it, he pauses to suck, to taste the salt of Harry’s skin, breathe in his scent, the bites over it too. Harry wants marks, he can leave marks.

He’s half waiting for Harry to protest, to yell at him, because they aren’t—this isn’t what they are—but Harry just arches his back and tilts his head so Zayn gets better access, his breath coming harsh and short and filled with ‘Zayn fuck yes please Zayn please’. He bites and sucks and licks until Harry’s writhing under him, like it’s only Zayn’s weight on him keeping him down, and he’s satisfied this bruise will take up most of his neck, not like the little one on the other side. It’s only then that he buries his satisfied smile in Harry’s neck, and moves on.

After, Harry looks at himself in the mirror, at the bruise blooming big and dark on his neck. Zayn watches him from the bed, still sprawled and fucked out, but he’s a bit worried too. What if Harry is mad? What if only—

But, “Knew you’d get jealous,” Harry says.

“Knew?” Zayn chokes.

“Don’t worry.” Harry pushes on the bruise himself. His breath catches, and Zayn can’t tell if it’s in pain or pleasure. It makes his breath catch too, even if Harry is a fucking little shit who was driving Zayn crazy on purpose, and he can’t help but reach out a hand for Harry, wrapping it around his wrist. “I like yours better.”

“You fucking better,” Zayn hisses, and Harry comes back to him with a willing laugh.


	61. Chapter 61

_**Prompt: giving a lap dance** _

It’s not like Harry’s been looking at that one more than any of the other strippers, because everyone here is very attractive. It’s not like he’s not been staring, a bit, at the boy on the stage, because it is Liam’s bachelor party and thus he is paying attention to making sure Liam is having fun and not at all the way that guy is rolling his hips, smooth and easy and suggestive, like he knows how to use them.

It’s definitely not at all like he watches the guy when he gets off stage, as he circulates through the crowd. He stops to touch one guy on the shoulder, kisses a girl on the cheek, and stays a while with another customer, and Harry is not at all watching him as he moves, in loose cloth pants now and a tank top that does nothing to disguise the tattoos all over his body, highlighting the wiry muscles and smooth, dark skin.

Not at all like Harry’s breath catches in his throat when the guy wanders over, and he’s even prettier in person, all eyelashes and cheekbones and smirking lips. “Saw you watching me,” he says, offhand. Which it probably is, Harry justifies frantically, probably he sees people watch him everyday Harry is no one special to this beautiful beautiful boy who is still coming closer, then he’s slinging a leg over Harry until he’s in his lap, until he’s just inches away and Harry’s breath catches as he rolls his hips again, like he did onstage, except this time it’s against Harry and his fists are clenching at his side so he won’t touch, won’t grab those circling hips and pull them down, even as his breathing starts to speed and his hips to jerk.

Then the guy is up, off of him with a self-satisfied grin as he pulls away. Harry stutters. The guy shakes his head. “That’s all you get for free,” he as good as purrs, and Harry can’t quite decide if he wants to go for his wallet before the guy is working his way back to the stage.

Harry closes his eyes, but the image of the boy is still bright against them. He’s probably going to need more cash.


	62. Chapter 62

_**Prompt:** **sexting** _

_Where are you?_

_Home. Why?_

_Wish you were here._

_Where are you?_

_Club. LA._

_US. Earth. Universe?_

_Zaynnnnnn stop. You aren’t here and it’s not fair. Want you to be here._

_Then you shouldn’t fuck off to LA, should you?_

_No, you should come with me. You’re hotter than everyone here, anyway._

_Right. Then all the movie stars?_

_Then everyone. Fuck. Wish you were here. Want to dance with you. Want to show you off and make everyone jealous. Can you be here?_

_Not easily, babe. How drunk are you?_

_Drunk enough to be texting you. How drunk are you?_

_Not at all. Well, a beer._

_Not enough to be sloppy then? Probably be all concentrated. Make it good._

_…Haz_

_What? You would. Know you would. I’d make it good for you too, Z. Be so good for you. Take it so fucking good._

_…fucking hell, Harry._

_I’d drag you into the loo. Push you into one of these stalls, kiss you until needed me as much as I need you. Probably wouldn’t go on my knees, these floors are gross, but I’d still be so good._

_Haz. You’re half a world away, don’t fucking do this._

_You liking it? I am._

_I’ll show you how much I like it when you get home._

_Please._


	63. Chapter 63

_**Prompt:** **trying to play footsie with the other during a meeting** _

Harry’s bored. He tries to pay attention in meetings, usually, but there’s only so many times a PR person can yell at them for tweeting from their own twitter accounts before it gets boring.

For him, at least. Liam’s nodding along, like he isn’t the worst offender on twitter ever, and Niall’s looking at the PR person but Harry’s fairly certain he’s completely zoned out. Louis is paying very close attention, probably, Harry spares a moment to worry, because he is planning to do each and every thing management tells them not to.

And Zayn. Zayn is sitting there, slouched in his chair, his eyes half-lidded like he’s going to sleep, but he’s got a Very Serious Look on at the PR person as she talks about social media and their responsibility. It’s not that Harry doesn’t think they have a responsibility, really, it’s just that Zayn looks really hot when he’s concentrating, his eyebrows drawn together and his teeth worrying into his lip. And that’s just on top of the usual general hotness of him.

It’s really not Harry’s fault, then, he reasons, as he stretches out his foot across the table. It’s really Zayn’s, for looking so damn fuckable and so not concentrated on Harry.

The table’s not wide, so it’s easy enough to reach out, to tap against Zayn’s shin, in a bit of a question. Zayn doesn’t react. Harry takes that as a challenge and an assent, so he slips his foot out of the flip-flop he was wearing and slides it slowly up the roughness of Zayn’s jeans, up into—

It gets batted away. Zayn doesn’t even look at him. Harry withholds a pout, but he is not put off that easily.  He tries again, his foot moving even slower this time, a drag like a tease and a promise and—

Liam squeaks, interrupting the PR person. “Little to your left,” he says, too fast, and Harry yanks his foot away with a flush on his face. Zayn glances to his right, and Harry sees him see Liam, then gives Harry a slow, amused grin.

Harry tries to grin back, and doesn’t jump at all when the toe of a boot taps against his foot.


	64. Chapter 64

_**Prompt:** **successfully turning the other on** _

People always underestimate, Zayn thinks, a bit ruefully and a bit happily, just how sneaky Harry is. They always think he’s this kitten hippie child, prancing through life with nary a care in the world and just butterflies and rainbows to occupy him—and he can be, Zayn will give them that. But they don’t know just how fucking sneaky he is.

Zayn had just been tired. He had been tired and they had a show in an hour and so when Harry had sidled up to him, eyes bright with a question, he had said that he’d rather get his energy up for the show. Just that. He still thinks it’s perfectly reasonable.

Harry, clearly, does not. Harry, clearly, has decided to take his revenge on-fucking-stage, because he is the sneakiest _asshole_ to ever exist.

It starts with touching, gentle pats on Zayn’s shoulder and his arm and his hip and his back and even his ass, little brushes of things that Zayn didn’t even think twice about. But then Harry had started playing with his hair, twining it through his fingers and tugging at it and looking like it was the best thing in the world—and he thought it was, Zayn knew. Knew how much Harry loved it when Zayn tugged at his hair, just this side of painful, and knew how much Zayn loved to pull on it, to get his fingers tangled in it like he could hold on forever.

Zayn catches Harry’s eye, after that, and Harry gives him a wide, dimpling smile, that Zayn reads as him knowing exactly what he’s doing.

Then it’s his lips. Pursing them, licking them. Fucking biting on his fingers, so they’re wrapped around them and his cheeks are a bit hollowed. He knows perfectly well how much Zayn loves his mouth, how beautiful he looks with his lips wrapped around Zayn’s cock, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

And of course the whole time he’s prancing around in those skin-tight jeans, with his shirt half open, and when he sings he rubs down his thighs and rolls his hips and generally acts like he’s half a second away from coming, and he keeps on darting this _fucking_ mischievous glances at Zayn, and Zayn can’t help it. He grabs Harry’s shoulder, brings him in close against him, so Harry can feel his semi pressing against him.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, and Harry tilts his head to grin.

“How was your nap, Zaynie?” he asks, all cheek. “Think I might take one after the show.”

Louis’s being an idiot on the other side of the stage, so Zayn pushes closer, his fingers biting into Harry’s skin the way he knows Harry likes it. “The fuck you will,” he hisses, nearly a growl, and Harry laughs and laughs and laughs.  


	65. Chapter 65

_**Look At Me (explicit)** _

_**Look At Me**  _

Harry never thought he’d say it—never thought he’d be in a position to say it, let alone want to—but he really loves being a model. He likes the way he looks in cameras, the way people tilt their head and look at him in the streets like they recognize him, the way he sees pictures of himself around sometimes, or in a magazine.

But what he likes the most are the photoshoots. Those were the parts he’d thought he’d like the least, people telling him how to stand and what to do and taking dozens and dozens of pictures of him when he’d never been certain how he looked in photos. But what he hadn’t counted on—what he hadn’t counted on in his life, in any of this—is Zayn. And that makes everything better.

Because it means it’s Zayn telling him how to stand and what to do, standing right behind Louis and his camera with his eyes on Harry, constantly on Harry. It might not be Zayn who dresses him, like it was in the early days when Zayn had been barely a face pretty enough to be in front of the camera if he had wanted and a pencil. And want, all the ambition and desire in the world, so when Harry had asked him, back when he had more or less blindly followed the boy with the endless eyes and face like a painting into a studio in an unheated flat, whether he was famous, “No,” Louis had said with a laugh from where he was setting up his camera. But Harry couldn’t look away from Zayn, from the fire that had lit in his cool eyes, from the way his jaw had set.

“But I will be,” Zayn had said, simply, like it was a fact, certain as the universe, and Harry, who had never known anything to be true at all, knew that to be true.

So now they’re here, in a professional studio with lighting and extras and Louis has assistants to carry his camera bag and there are hair and makeup people fussing over Harry and Zayn’s standing in the middle of it, directing people. It’s a far cry from that flat, where Zayn and Louis had shared one mattress and a couch between them, where Harry had laid stretched on the couch as Zayn sat on the floor and sketched, arching his back and reveling in the steady gaze Zayn had given him as he worked, talking about everything and nothing.

But Zayn still comes over as Harry’s is primping in the mirror; comes up behind Harry and presses gently against him. He’s not dressed up—just jeans and a t-shirt, for all Harry thinks he looks better in his clothes than Harry ever could—but he turns it into a fashion statement, as much as the outfit Harry’s wearing is.

“You good, babe?” he asks, leaning over to whisper in Harry’s ear. Harry can see them reflected back at him, so, so pretty together, like all the magazines said. Can watch Zayn’s hand run down the lapel of his jacket, tug on his shirt so it fits right, tuck into his belt loops and turn them slightly. It’s not at all sexual for him, Harry knows; it’s a job. As much as he likes how Harry looks, right now it’s about how the clothes look on Harry.

Harry doesn’t care. It can’t not be sexual to him, Zayn’s hands stroking over him, Zayn’s finger running up the inseam in a considering sort of way, Zayn’s breath on his neck. It’s like this every shoot, always; adrenaline and lust mixed together under Zayn’s hands.

Then he drops a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, and Zayn grins, a flash of laughter before he gets down to serious business.

“Come on, then,” he orders, and Harry can’t do anything but go. He’s never been able to, when Zayn told him to do anything. Not since that first time, when Zayn had laughed at the glittery boots and open shirt he was wearing in a bar and told him if he came with him, he’d dress him better.

The shoot’s a simple one today, Harry perching on a chair in a done up sitting room in a variety of poses. He does what Louis tells him, poses as he wants and makes the faces he wants, but whenever he’s looking at the camera it’s not the camera he’s looking at, it’s Zayn behind it, his gaze constant on Harry. Even when he’s not looking at the camera Harry can feel that gaze, can feel it sink into his skin.

Twenty minutes in, Louis calls a halt, and pulls Zayn aside. Harry goes over to makeup to get refreshed and grab a bottle of water to cool him off from the hot lights and too-heavy clothes.  The makeup girls are just finished with him when Zayn comes over, tugs him to his feet.

“We’ve got an idea,” he says, and before Harry can say anything he’s at Harry’s collar, undoing buttons until the tattoos at Harry’s chest are showing through, and he yanks the tails out of Harry’s pants. Harry swallows as Zayn runs his fingers though Harry’s hair, tugs at his belt so it’s undone. Harry swallows, trying not to focus on the beads of sweat on Zayn’s neck, how his adam’s apple is bobbing, how he’s biting his lip in concentration as he messes Harry up. How he looks at Harry like he always does, like he’s the center of his universe.

When he’s done, and Harry’s willed his erection down to acceptable proportions, he sends Harry back with a playful slap of his ass that has Harry yelping and flailing at his arms. Zayn laugh in his face, then slips off to stand behind Louis again. His lips are pink with his chewing.

It’s the best thing in the world, Harry thinks, the heavy heat of Zayn’s gaze on him, and it sinks through his skin this time, through his skin and into his bones. And it doesn’t help that Louis and Zayn’ve never gotten the hang of assistants, so too often it’s Zayn who’s coming over to arrange Harry, moving his limbs like he’s his to move—and he is, of course, for all Harry’s never sure if he knows just how much. He adjusts Harry how he wants him, hands quick and sure on Harry, and Harry’s burning with the heat of the lights and Zayn and all his willpower is barely keeping him from vibrating out of his skin.

Finally, finally, it’s over, and Louis sets down his camera with a, “Great shoot, mate,” for Harry, and a muttered word for Zayn, as Harry sags against the chair.

Then Zayn’s there, like magic, his arms wrapped around Harry’s waist and breath back on his cheek. “Let’s get you out of those clothes, yeah?” he says, and Harry can’t help but keen as Zayn’s fingers run over the bared skin of his chest.

“Zayn,” He whines, arching back, and he can feel Zayn’s grin into his neck.

“Home,” he says, and his teeth scrape over Harry so he’s quivering as Zayn wraps a hand around his wrist and leads him away.

The cab ride home is a blur, Harry pressed against Zayn’s side, Zayn’s fingers running up and down his ribs like he could play them, Harry clenching down hard on the urge to give up and just rut against Zayn like it’s all he wants, which it is. But then they’re at the flat, and Zayn is leading Harry into the elevator with muttered words of encouragement, and then they’re inside, and in the bedroom, and Zayn’s easing the jacket off of Harry.

Harry holds out his arms to let him, just as good at undressing Harry as dressing him. He takes his time, hangs up the jacket, then comes back to undo the shirt the rest of the way. Harry shivers as the cool air conditioning hits his skin, but the heat of Zayn’s hands are enough to counteract it, as they skate over him. He leaves for a moment to fold the shirt, then he kneels to slide Harry’s belt off. Harry’s throat is dry, his chest heaving, but Zayn doesn’t touch now, just pulls his pants and boxers off with practiced hands, so Harry’s naked in front of him.

“Bed,” Zayn tells him, and Harry goes, lies down on his back while Zayn folds up the pants, tosses the boxers in the hamper, coils the belt neatly.

When he turns back, his eyes are dark, and it’s not professional anymore.

Harry smiles, the same smile that’s won over millions on billboards, and he can see Zayn swallow. Slowly, carefully, he crawls over, straddles his hips and leans down.

Then at last he’s kissing Harry’s and Harry barely needs the touch of his lips before he’s arching into it, making noises he doesn’t care to categorize as Zayn takes his mouth hard and fast, like he’s been waiting as long as Harry.

“Fuck, Haz,” he mutters into Harry’s neck, as he pulls away to kiss down Harry’s throat. “Just—fuck.”

“Please,” Harry breathes. His skin is alive with nerves, and Zayn’s drawing shivers over it as well as he draws the lines in his sketchbooks.

Zayn’s hips jerk, and he comes back up to kiss Harry again, hard, before going back down to lick around Harry’s nipples. Harry’s hands fist into the sheets, pressing up into it as Zayn bites and licks, his fingers on the other nipple with the same teasing pressure.

“Zayn,” Harry says. He can barely look at him, at that dark head and strong body, “Zayn, Zayn—”

“What, babe?” He looks up, a quick, gentle look beneath his eyelashes, tender, like Harry’s the most precious thing he has.

“Please?” Harry repeats. It’s all he knows to say. He just—needs, wants.

Zayn nods, though, like he knows what that means. “C’mon, babe,” he says, soft and coaxing, “Get my clothes off.”

Harry nods. He likes that. So he sits up as Zayn rolls off of him so he’s on his back and Harry’s on top, pulls his shirt off and tosses it away, then undoes his belt and pulls down. He doesn’t get the jeans farther than Zayn’s thighs before he gives in, goes back up to wrap his tongue around Zayn’s hard cock that’s just right there, and Zayn gives a bitten-back moan before his hand’s in Harry’s hair and he’s pulling him off.

“You not taking direction?” he asks, stern but gentle, and Harry shakes his head. He’s here for that. “Okay then, get my clothes off,” Zayn repeats.

This time, Harry does, trailing his hands over wiry thighs and calves as he bares Zayn’s legs. When’s naked, properly so, Harry sits back on his heels to wait, squirming only a little at the sight of Zayn sprawled out there, pretty as one of his pictures.

“Okay, babe. Good.” Zayn’s trying to do his professional voice, but it’s raspy in a way only Harry can make it, and Harry loves that. “Now, what was that you were doing before?”

Harry doesn’t have to be told twice. He loves this, loves how when he licks up Zayn’s cock Zayn goes rigid beneath him, how he mutters out nonsense words about beautiful and wonderful and ‘so fucking hot’, how he can hear Zayn’s breath coming loud and fast as he tightens his mouth around Zayn’s dick. He’s almost there, almost got him there—then Zayn’s pulling him off _again_ and Harry makes a small disappointed sound.

“What, babe?” Zayn asks, a teasing smile on his face as he strokes a finger over Harry’s lips. Harry chases the finger with his tongue, watches Zayn’s muscles clench as he licks it. “Thought you wanted me to fuck you.”

“Do,” Harry agrees. He sits back on his heels again. “How?”

Zayn gives him a long, considering look, almost like he gets when Harry’s first trying on clothes, then he rolls over towards the bedside table, and tosses the lube to Harry. “Why don’t you get yourself ready, babe,” he says, and scoots back so he can lean against the headboard. “So I can see.”

Harry loves doing things so Zayn can see. He slicks up his fingers, sits back so he can spread his legs and give Zayn a good view as he slides one finger in, then two. He doesn’t move his eyes from Zayn, so he can see the concentration Zayn’s giving him, never looking away even as he rolls a condom on. He crooks his finger and moans as it hits his prostate, then adds a third, fucking in and out and he’s so—

“Fuck, okay,” Zayn hisses, and Harry’s caught between grinning and begging because he’s so fucking close. “Come here.

“On top?”

“Yeah.” Zayn reaches out to pull Harry in by the forearms, then, when he’s close enough, by the hips. “Come on, babe.” He positions Harry over him, as sure as he had been when he was guiding him on the shoot. He eases him down slowly even if Harry thinks he wants it now, until he’s full seated in Harry, filling him up. Harry hisses out a breath at that, at how good it feels. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Harry rocks his hips, and Zayn’s head goes back. So Harry does it again, and again, and then Zayn’s hands close on his hips and he’s the one moving Harry, pulling him up and down with Harry’s motions as Zayn’s hips thrust in time.

Harry knows it won’t take Zayn long, never does, just like it won’t take him long with Zayn staring at him, eyelashes fluttering over his face, so he moans as Zayn lets go of one of his hips to wrap it around his dick, pumping in time to Zayn’s thrusts. His gaze is dark and sure and his mouth is a little open in something like awe, and that’s what it takes for Harry to come, thick white spurts all over Zayn’s hand.

He slumps down, onto Zayn’s chest, and Zayn runs a gentle hand over his spine before he rolls them, brings Harry’s legs up to his chest so he can keep fucking into him. Harry smiles lazily at it, riding the afterglow and the burning in Zayn’s face, as he thrusts once, twice, then comes on Harry’s name.

Now it’s his turn to slump forward, and Harry’s to run a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, as he breathes through it.

After a moment, Zayn gets his bearings back enough to pull out, to tug off the condom and tie it off. He presses a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead as he rises, throws out the condom and gets a washcloth to softly wipe them both clean, moving Harry’s arm out of the way so he can get everything. When he’s done, he tosses that in the hamper, and lies down next to Harry, pulls him into his arms so Harry’s head is resting on his chest.

“You looked great today,” he murmurs, and Harry tilts his head up to smile at him. It’s all he wants, sometimes; to look great for Zayn, to help show the world how brilliant Zayn is.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His hand runs over Harry’s shoulder, like he’s tracing an invisible sleeve. “I love you, you know.”

That gets a bigger grin, and Harry presses a kiss to his chest to see his gaze go soft around the edges, his eyes crinkle into a smile. “Love you too.”


	66. Chapter 66

_**Prompt: partners in dance class** _

“This is really stupid, Haz.”

“Zayn—”

“Like, really stupid. I’m going to trip. I’m going to look stupid. I’m going to make both of us look stupid.”

Harry very carefully does not smile at Zayn, because Zayn’s pride is a very real, very touchy thing that he only just managed to defeat to get him here a second time. So he does not smile at his cool, collected boyfriend biting at his lip and eying the dance floor like it was about to bite him.

Instead, he leans over to kiss Zayn’s cheek. “I remember I met you.”

“I remember I nearly got your leg broken, and Doniya didn’t speak to me for a month.”

“I almost broke my leg on my own.” Couples are starting to line up, and Harry pats at his pocket with one hand—still there—as he grabs Zayn’s hand with the other. “Come on, love. Dance with me?”

“I hate dancing,” Zayn mutters, but Harry gives him his best smile, with the dimples Harry knows he can’t resist, and Zayn sighs and lets Harry tug him close.

It’s not like the first time. The first time, Zayn had just been the heart-stoppingly fit guy Harry had magically been paired with in the class Nick had dragged him to in moral support in his pursuit of the hot teacher. They hadn’t known how to touch each other then, had been awkward in negotiating who should lead and whose hand should go where and Harry had been too busy staring at Zayn and tripping over his words to pay attention to his feet and Zayn had barely been able to look at him, he was concentrating so hard.

This time, years later, they know each other as well as they know themselves. Harry’s hand goes to Zayn’s back and Zayn’s hand slips around his waist, and they’re moving together. Not seamlessly, because neither of them are very good dancers at all, but easily, and together at least.

There’s just something so erotic about this sort of ballroom dancing, something Harry had been too distracted by the Zayn-ness of Zayn last time to notice. Something about the prescribed distance, about Zayn’s thumb rubbing against him through his shirt and how Harry can feel his back move beneath his hand, it’s sending shivers through him. And it’s not just erotic, either. Harry can feel how well they go together, how they fit, all their edges balanced out, catching each other when the other one falters. There are almost tears in Harry’s eyes, and his pocket is burning a hole in him.

Zayn notices—of course he does, it’s what Zayn does, takes care of people, notices when they’re down—and leans in, so his breath whispers across Harry’s skin, “You okay, babe?”

Harry swallows. Okay is an understatement. “Yeah.” He looks over Zayn’s shoulder, catches the eye of the instructor—not the hot one Nick had managed eventually to shag, but a nice lady who had been utterly charmed when Harry had talked to her—and she nods.

“Zayn?” Harry says. They’re still dancing, sort of, even if Harry’s pretty sure they’re off beat. That’s them, though—always a little off beat, together. “Remember when we met, here?”

Zayn chuckles. “Sure. Hard to forget my first ambulance ride.”

“I really didn’t need that—anyway.” Harry swallows. “Anyway. I wanted to come back here, because it started here—we started here—even though neither of us wanted to be here—” ‘here’s’ stopped being a word, but Harry powers through. He should have rehearsed this speech, probably, but he doesn’t think it would help, because he’s too full of love and nerves for something like memory to have a place, “because I saw you here and I still say I fell in love with you right then, even if you think love at first sight’s a fallacy. So, I wanted to be back here.” He pauses. The instructor’s turning down the music a bit, so Harry doesn’t have to pitch his voice loudly.

“To be back here,” he repeats, and draws his hand away from Zayn to dig in his pocket for the box. Zayn’s looking at him, his eyebrows drawn down like he’s confused, but with a light in his eyes like he’s not.

“Harry?”

“To ask,” Harry goes on. He steps away from Zayn, and drops to one knee. His knee bangs painfully against the floor because he goes down too quickly, but he doesn’t care. Zayn’s looking at him with wide eyes and soft lips and maybe other people, other dancers, are looking at them too but he doesn’t care. “Zayn,” Harry says, and flips open the box. “Marry me?”

One two three goes the waltz, then one two three again, and Zayn’s still just staring at him, with the far away look he gets when he’s processing.

“Zayn?” Harry says again, gently. Sometimes Zayn needs this time to process. Sometimes he needs Harry to bring him back.

Zayn blinks, and he’s there again, his lips curving into the biggest smile ever. “Yes, Haz, of course, fuck, yes,” he says, and Harry doesn’t wait another second before launching himself at him so hard he nearly knocks them both over and breaks their legs again, and people are clapping and Zayn is spinning him around and around and Harry is breathless with laughter and he presses kisses to Zayn’s face.

There’s definitely going to be dancing at their wedding.


	67. Chapter 67

_**Prompt: gets into a cab only to find someone else already inside AU** _  

Zayn is late. Not just his normal late, which is bad enough but not unexpected, but properly late. It’s not his fault. The trains are doing weird things and his cat had thrown up and Niall had spilled juice on his first outfit so he had to change and now he’s going to be a good forty five minutes late, if the trains continue to behave. He’s honestly not sure his date will wait that long.

It’s that thought that decides him. It’s not the Chris is so brilliant he’d die if he doesn’t go on a date with him, but he’s fit enough and funny and Zayn hasn’t met someone who he liked even a bit in a while, so he’s not going to give this up. He changes course from the station to the edge of the street. There’s a cab already there, thank god, and he slides into the seat while typing frantic apologies on his phone.

He’s already parroting the address to the cabby when he looks over and realizes there’s someone else in the car. Shit.

“Shit,” he says, under his breath, “Fuck, I’m sorry bro, I totally didn’t see you—”

He’s reaching for the door handle again when there’s a hand on his arm, stopping him. Zayn freezes. He’s not so much with the casual touching by strangers. “No, I’m going that way anyway, we can share.”

It’s so much of a godsend that Zayn relaxes, moves his hand away, and looks over.

The guy on the other side of the cab is lovely. Not conventionally handsome, like Chris is, but he’s got rich brown curls and bright eyes and a sparkling smile, and broad shoulders that look climbable. “You sure?” Zayn asks. He glances at his phone. Chris hasn’t replied yet.

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s not out of my way, and you look like you’re in a hurry.” He gives Zayn a sidelong glance. He’s pretty sure it’s not judging how late he is.

Zayn is not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, though. “Thanks, mate,” he says on a heartfelt sigh, “You’re a lifesaver.” He gives the cabby the address, and leans back against the seat as the cabby pulls out.

The other guy mirrors him. He’s still just looking at Zayn, but it’s not invasive, just appreciative.

“Harry,” the guy says, and holds out his hand.

“Zayn.” Zayn takes his hand. His hand is bigger than Zayn’s, but he’s not exerting too much pressure. If anything, Zayn’s grip is stronger. “Thanks again, really.”

“No problem.” Harry lets go of his hand after a normal amount of time. Zayn tries not to be disappointed. “Where are you in such a hurry for?”

“Date,” Zayn says. Chris still hasn’t texted back confirming. “Or, maybe.”

“Maybe?” Harry cocks his head, confused. It’s cute, on him. “Someone wouldn’t want to go on a date with you?”

Zayn glances down, away, before he blushes. “Dunno yet, do I?”

Chris doesn’t text the whole way to the restaurant, but Harry keeps up a steady stream of conversation, and it’s nice. Easy. He doesn’t seem to care that Zayn doesn’t respond much and laughs when he does, his full lips always curved around a smile. Zayn can feel himself smiling too, in a way he hasn’t in a while.

They pull up to the restaurant, and Zayn glances in. He can’t see anything.

“Hey.” He looks back at Harry, who holds a piece of paper out to him. Zayn takes it, a little blindly. There’s a number on it. “In case he’s stupid enough to ditch,” Harry says, with a wink that should be over the top. “I’m free in an hour.”

Zayn takes the paper, slips it into his pocket with a coy glance as he slides out of the cab. He kind of hopes Chris doesn’t show.


	68. Chapter 68

_**Prompt:** **Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.** _

Harry is drunk. Harry is very very drunk, and he needs to find Zayn. He doesn’t think these things are related because he thinks he should always be with Zayn, or he should always keep Zayn with him at all times because then he can be with Zayn always and that makes him feel best of all, but it doesn’t matter because he needs to find Zayn.

He stumbles through the chaos that is the hotel barroom that’s hosting the wrap party for this leg of the tour, runs into Paul, Louis, three different sound guys, and Niall, before he finally spots Zayn. Zayn is leaning against the wall talking to some girl, and he’s drunk too because his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright and his hands are waving more than they usually do, and he is lovely lovely lovely with his shirt hanging open just a little bit at his collar so Harry can see the line of his collarbone that is Harry’s favorite place to bite and dream about leaving marks.

The girl has her hand on Zayn’s arm and Zayn isn’t shaking it off, he’s giving her a smile and that’s not okay. Harry has spent the last four years learning how to get Zayn to smile then hoarding all of his smiles because he is the best at getting them, except Niall who doesn’t count because he’s Niall. But now Zayn is smiling and maybe it’s because Harry’s drunk or the lights are weird but it looks like he’s glowing and he’s just so pretty and so far away.

Harry can fix one of those things and doesn’t want to fix the other except he sort of does because then all these other people wouldn’t always be looking at Zayn and he would be the only one and then Zayn would look back all the time. If he went over now, he could make Zayn look at him, and he could move the girl’s hand off Zayn’s arm and put his own there, or maybe put it on his ass because that’s always better and Zayn gets off on that, and he could push Zayn into the wall and kiss him until he’s satisfied.

It’s a pretty brilliant idea, so Harry does, starts to walk—then a hand catches his arm, and Paul’s there shaking his head. “Harry,” he says, “You can’t.”

“But—”

“No,” Paul says again, firmly even if he looks like he’s sad he has to say it, and Harry almost stumbles against the weight of that word. No. No kissing Zayn. No touching Zayn. No looking at Zayn if he can help it. No no no no no but he wants and he’s so drunk and he just wants to be with Zayn because he’ll make him feel right again and he can feel his drunk shifting into maudlin and—

“Hey, babe,” arms wrap around him from behind and Zayn’s voice is in his ear, slurring a little but still with that Zayn-y note that makes Harry shiver every time he hears it. “You okay?”

Harry nods. He is now, because Zayn is here and holding him and touching him and with him. “You okay?” he retorts.

Paul lets go of his arm, and he’s got that look on his face he usually gets when Louis does something particularly outrageous, like he’s amused and annoyed all at once. “Just get into a room first, boys,” he says, and Harry gives his biggest grin in thanks because Paul is the best, really.

“Course,” Zayn agrees, but it’s Harry who manages to get a hand around Zayn’s wrist and tug him off, down to the elevators that will take him up to their rooms, and Zayn stabs at the up button then, when the doors ding open and Harry drags them inside, very deliberately chooses the button of their floor, his eyes narrowed in thought as he figures it out.

The elevator is basically a room, Harry figures, and finally, finally, he pushes Zayn against the wall to kiss.


	69. Chapter 69

_**Prompt:** ****Cheiloproclitic -**  Being attracted to someones lips** _

“You do know you’re staring, right?” Louis asks. 

“What?”

“You’re staring. At that bloke.” Zayn actually is aware of this, thank you very much. He is also aware he should probably stop, because he isn’t being subtle, and he likes to think he usually is subtle. But it’s not like the guy’ll notice, all the way across the quad with his own group of friends in their little hipster bubble, all tight jeans and plaid shirts. He won’t look over to Zayn’s group of slap-dash friends sprawled out over the grass on assorted blankets stolen from Niall’s roommate.

“Am I?” Zayn drawls. The boy isn’t even his type, really, too…much, in a general sort of way, all limbs and hair and his head tilted back to catch the late-spring sun. But he’s talking, and he’s got these lips, all pink and full, and they’re forming each word slowly and deliberately and Zayn can’t look away.

“Yeah, you are.” Louis pokes him in the side. Zayn swats at him lazily, misses, and Louis pokes him again. “For like, a full five minutes now. Do you blink?”

“On occasion.” One of the boy’s friends, a tall lad with a quiff as tall as Zayn’s, says something, and the boy pouts, his lips coming together and his cheeks hollowing out. It’s very interesting, really.

“Okay, really.” Louis slaps him on the head this time, which does make Zayn look away. “Stop. You’re being creepy.”

“You’re being creepy,” Zayn retorts, and slaps Louis back. This inevitably devolves into a slap fight, and only ends when Liam grabs their collars and pulls them apart with a quiet, resigned admonition that only gets wide grins from both of them.

Zayn settles back on the blanket, his back resting on Louis’s shoulder. Because he’s bored and sun-warmed and for no other reason, he looks back across the quad, to where the boy with the sinful lips was sitting.

He’s still sitting there. But now he’s looking right at Zayn, those lips curved into a smile with dimples at the end of them. Zayn’s first instinct is to look away, to glance down at his knees and pretend he hasn’t been staring. But it’s also warm and there’re no consequences to a bit of harmless ogling across the quad, and he has been staring, so he just looks evenly back.

The boy’s grin widens, if possibly, then he brings those lips together and blows Zayn a kiss. It’s cheesy and ridiculous and his lips are obscenely kissable. Zayn rolls his eyes, and the boy winks once.

“Are you literally flirting across a quad, Malik?” Louis demands, and Zayn tilts back his head to laugh.

“Just ‘cause you’ve got no game,” he retorts, giving Louis a single raised eyebrow. It get gets a glare from Louis, as he can only raise two, and Zayn smirks at him before settling against him again. Which means the boy is right in his line of sight, so he can’t really avoid him. When he glances over, it’s the boy who’s staring. Zayn licks his lips and looks back.


	70. Chapter 70

_**Summertime In The City** _

It’s one of Zayn’s favorite things to do, go to Central Park in the summer. Especially at the beginning of the summer, when it’s not so hot that everyone is hiding inside with their air conditioner, and they aren’t so jaded about the sun. But in the beginning of the summer, the first few nice days, the park is his favorite place. Everyone’s out, the children on bikes and scooters, the couples walking hand in hand around the lake, runners dodging wanderers and tourists. The low buzz of chatter and children’s laughter overwhelming the traffic coming from the city outside, sometimes music from a busker or someone pulling a stereo around behind them on a bike. It’s the entire city in microcosm, he thinks sometimes. And it’s all there for him to watch.

Because that’s what makes it better, really. That it’s all out there, and he can sit and watch it and not have to throw himself into it. He loves the city, the way it never sleeps and is always pulsing its bright lights around him, but sometimes he feels too caught up in it, the push of people moving moving moving, the scream of taxi horns and relentless concrete. Here, in the park, he gets the best of both worlds: the energy and the calm, when he can sit on a bench and just sketch the people passing over the passes, lying on the Great Lawn. He’s best at observing.

He’s been there for an hour or so, sketching babies in their prams and a young couple walking with their hands in each other’s pockets and a little girl playing with streamers as her mother laughs, when he sees him.

It’s just a guy, really. No different from any of the other guys sitting on the lawn. But there’s something about him that catches Zayn’s eyes, something about the way he sits, legs bent, his hands holding him up behind him, his head tilted back like he’s drinking in the sun. Like it’ll help him grow. He’s got on skinny jeans despite the heat, a plaid button down and a scarf wrapped around his brown curls. Zayn can’t see his face in full, both because of the angle and because he’s not that close, but he can get the edges of it—strong jaw, tanned skin, a hint of full lips when he turns to the guy with him (boyfriend? Friend? Brother? Zayn can’t tell) and smiles. He’s really not meant for the pencils Zayn has with him—Zayn hasn’t played in anything more than his design software or pencils for years, but he thinks he would need oils to do this guy justice. Or maybe his spray paints, which he really hasn’t played with for years. Rich, bright colors, full saturation. Not black and white, certainly. He’s meant for color.

Still, Zayn does as best he can, stealing looks from beneath his lashes so he doesn’t seem like a creep staring. He doesn’t quite get everything, not the energy of him, the way he looks like a solar panel absorbing light, but he gets the long limbs and tousled curls, and he thinks—hopes—he gets a little of the contentment of him, the way he looks utterly at home in his skin.

He finishes, or gets as done as he thinks he can be, then moves on, choosing instead a group of guys playing ultimate Frisbee, so he can contrast the stillness from before with this movement. Potential to actuality, his art school professors might have said; if there wouldn’t be legal bullshit about getting consent for modeling and everything Zayn would be tempted to throw it into an ad for Gatorade or something. He thinks his bosses would like it.

When he happens to glance over to the guy again—maybe if he moved he’d make another good study—he’s gone. His friend, a good looking older guy, is still there, flipping through a book, but he’s gone. Zayn isn’t disappointed. Or is only disappointed in that he had made a good subject, and now he won’t get another sketch.

He flips back a page in his sketch book to fiddle with the other drawing, wanting to see if he can get more of the feel of the sun warming his skin, the happiness in him, and—

“Hey.” Zayn jumps a little. You don’t just talk to people in the park. It isn’t done. And everyone he knows would know better than to interrupt him when he’s drawing. So Zayn looks up.

The guy from before is standing in front of him. Pastels, Zayn thinks a little stupidly. Pastels might work for him, because he has a pre-raphelite face, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes. He’s too busy figuring that out to respond, which must look kind of stupid, or at least deer-in-headlights, because the guy goes on, “’s not polite to stare, you know.”

Zayn gets out a, “What?” at that, which he’s pretty proud of, all things considering.

“You were staring,” the guy says, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to punch Zayn or anything. He’s got a bit of a smile tilting those pink lips, and he sits down not on the bench proper, but on the arm, his feet on the bench. “Not that I much mind fit guys staring at me, but. It’s polite to give me your name first.”

“Zayn,” Zayn answers. He’s still a little overwhelmed by being accosted here. The park is for solitude, for him. He’s not sure how to deal with this whole sketch come to life thing. But let it never be said he can’t roll with the punches, because he shakes his head and clears it. “Sorry. For the staring.”

“As I said, don’t mind when fit guys stare at me.” The guy gives him another smile, and this ones a little slower, a little more knowing. Okay. This Zayn knows how to deal with. It’s not the first time he’s been hit on at random moments. Louis likes to tease him about the number of people who come up to him, sometimes. “I just thought you might want to know you were caught.”

“’m not, like, a creep or anything,” Zayn finds it necessary to say. The guy’s lips curve again. He has dimples. Zayn has a sudden urge to pull out another page and do this sketch, the guy perched on a bench with the sunlight caught in his hair, that knowing smile on, the dimples taking the knowing and softening it into something more gentle. “I was just—drawing.” He realizes as he says it that doesn’t actually make him sound better.

But the guy doesn’t seem to notice that. Instead, his eyes light up. “Oh, are you an artist?” he asks, then before Zayn can reply, he just reaches over and grabs the sketchpad out of his lap.

“Hey!” Zayn yelps, and considers flailing for it, but that would be a little too undignified for him.

“I’m in here, I think it’s half mine,” the guy says casually, like he goes around stealing stranger’s sketchpads all the time—which he might, it’s not like Zayn knows anything about him. It’s just hard to distrust those dimples—and flips through the pages. He takes a quick glance at the Frisbee players, smiles at the little girl, coos at the baby, then looks at the one of him for a long time.

“These are really good,” he says at last. “Are you an artist?”

Zayn shakes his head, then shrugs. “Not really.”

“Not really?”

“I do graphic design for an ad firm,” Zayn shrugs again. “More selling out than art. But it pays the bills.”

The guy tilts his head. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, then.” He looks at his sketch again and smiles. It doesn’t have any of the knowing in it, is just open and bright and somehow wants to make Zayn smile too, even if he’s pretty bad at smiling at people he doesn’t know. “I mean, you make great art, so you’re an artist if you wanna be, yeah?”

Zayn’s not entirely sure that makes sense, but he can’t not smile a little. “Sure.” 

“No, it is—” the guy begins, but he gestures too wildly and tips backwards, his face going wide-eyed as he starts to fall.

Zayn shoots an arm out, gets a hand on his wrist to haul him back upright. “Shit, you all right?”

“Yeah.” The guy shakes his head, then looks at him, all big green eyes and full lips. “Thanks. For saving me.”

“That’s me, your friendly neighborhood hero,” Zayn drawls, and the guy gives a bit of a bewildered chuckle. So no superheroes, then. Bit of a disappointment, but Zayn thinks he’ll live.

“That Spiderman?” he asks, “I’ve got a mate who loves those movies.”

“Yeah.” Given that Zayn’s wearing a green lantern t-shirt, he’s pretty sure the nerd thing’s not a turn-off. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Oh, sure. I fall off of things a lot.” He ducks his head, but he’s grinning. “And onto things, and over things, and all other ways. There’s a lot of falling in my life.”

“Sounds tiring.” Again, Zayn can’t help but smile at the resignation in his voice, all petulant child.

“Well, not when I’ve got my own knight in shining armor to save me.” And there’s the sly smile again. Forget the other series, Zayn wants to do a series just of him, of that instant switch from flirtatious to playful to erotic and back. Zayn can’t even tell if it’s on purpose, and he’s usually decent at reading people. “Maybe I should just have you follow me around all the time to keep me from falling.”

“Kinda mess with my job,” Zayn points out.

That’s waved away. “No, because I would be your muse and you would draw me like one of your French girls and sell it for lots of money.” He sighs gustily, like that was obvious, and Zayn snorts.

“I don’t really make it a habit of dropping everything to follow around people whose names I don’t know, babe,” he drawls. He’s gotten his groove back, he thinks. It’s not quite the isolation he likes, but he’ll take flirting with a cute guy, even if he’s not his type. Not that he isn’t nicely muscled, from what Zayn can see now, with how he fills out his shirt around the shoulders and trim waist, and how his muscles are flexing beneath Zayn’s hand around his wrist. Which he still has there.

He lets go, drops his hand to his thigh and picks up a pen to fiddle with. He thinks the guy looks disappointed. “It’s Harry,” the guy—Harry—says, “And I should hope you don’t.” he sniffs disapprovingly, then ruins the effect by grinning. “I can’t have my superhero running around saving everyone.”

“But what if someone else falls?” Zayn asks. He’s totally lost track of this conversation, but he doesn’t really care, for once. It’s like the energy Harry soaked in with the sun is in him too, passed to him through their contact maybe.

A flash of those devastating dimples. “As long as I’m the only one falling for you,” Harry says, with a wink. And it’s just too much. Zayn bursts into laughter, covering his mouth with a hand when it gets too loud, curving over a bit to brace himself. He hasn’t laughed like that in ages.

When he looks up, Harry’s jaw is snapping shut into a pout that doesn’t reach his dancing eyes. “Hey,” he whines, “That was my best line.”

“Wasn’t very good,” Zayn retorts, still chuckling. “You’ll need better than that.”

“Oh will I?” The knowing smirk is back, and Zayn raises an eyebrow in challenge.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not Harry taking the hand that had been wrapped around him. Harry’s hands are big and smooth, with the kind of nails that come from manicures, and there’s something in his eyes—it’s like the sun, like the grass of the lawn and the leaves on the trees and summer come to life, and Zayn doesn’t know a medium in the world that could do it justice. He holds Zayn’s gaze with that look, with all the energy of the city, even as his hand holds Zayn’s, and Zayn forces back a shiver that has nothing to do with the sunlight on his neck.

He almost thinks Harry is going to go for a kiss—but instead he slides the pen out of Zayn’s fingers, his thumb warm on Zayn’s wrist, tracing a circle around his pulse, and scribbles something on the sketchpad, then slips the pen back into his hand.

“So,” Harry says, his voice a purr, “Will I?”

Zayn bites his lip, swallows. “You’ll have to see, won’t you?” he gets out, hoping he doesn’t sound as choked as he feels, and Harry laughs. It’s free and open and inviting, dimples poking into his cheeks.

“Hope I won’t,” he replies, and slides off the bench. “See you ‘round, Zayn. Feel free to stare at me all you want. Maybe you can pose me, next time.” Then with a final grin that is somehow the dirtiest thing he’s done yet, he’s gone, loping off back to the grass where his friend sits, then pulling him to his feet and setting off.

Zayn does stare, a little at his ass in those tight jeans and the way his hair shifts in whatever wind the city lets through. Then he looks down at the sketchpad Harry had left on the bench. 

On the corner of his sketch—in permanent ink, too—is a number, with Harry J beneath it.  Zayn runs his finger over it, over the corner of grass it covers. He thinks it makes the drawing better. 


	71. Chapter 71

_**Prompt: Agelast - A person who never laughs.** _

Here’s the thing. Zayn can be a bit of an asshole sometimes. He knows this about himself. He’s basically okay with it, given that he thinks he’s generally a decent person. So yeah. Sometimes he’s contrary and stubborn and likes to push and is generally a shithead.

“Pick a cod, any cod!” Harry finishes his joke with a triumphant smile. The whole crowd laughs; Niall gives a bit of a chuckle, Liam giggles, Louis rolls his eyes. Zayn knows Harry’s looking at him, can feel the weight of his gaze on him, so he turns slowly. It’s really not a good joke, he might even laugh at it sometime—except, well, as previously said. Asshole. 

So instead, he just raises his eyebrows like a dare, lets one corner of his mouth rise in a smirk. Harry’s grin turns into an over-exaggerated pout. “Zaynie,” he whines into his microphone, steps closer leading with his hips. “Why aren’t you laughing? Aren’t I funny?”

He’s mugging for the cameras, Zayn knows, with his jutting lip and big eyes, and he’s mugging for Zayn, with the way his hips keep swaying and he brushes his hair out of his face. So Zayn doesn’t break, even if he might have chuckled at it some other time, but now he keeps a straight face. “Not at all, Haz.”

“Heey,” Harry crosses his arms over his chest and glares without heat in it. “I’m hysterical.”

“Sure,” Zayn drawls back, and then Louis pours water on Liam and the crowd’s energy is diverted. Zayn’s thinking about going over to help Louis when Harry wraps himself around him from behind, hooking an arm around his neck.

“Admit it, I’m funny,” he whispers into Zayn’s ear.

“Nah,” Zayn mutters back, tilting his head. “Never.”

“Never?” Harry asks, with a hint of a purr in his voice. “Bet that’s not true.

“Bet it is,” Zayn shoots back, and Harry chuckles before he lets go.

Hours later, after the show, after the afterparty, after Harry tugged Zayn down onto the bed and wrapped his lips around Zayn until Zayn choked out Harry’s name like a prayer and then came apart beneath Zayn’s searching hands and roving lips, Harry pokes Zayn in the side. “Admit it,” he repeats, his voice scratchy in a way that makes Zayn grin in satisfaction. “I’m hysterical.”

Zayn’s too drained to be an asshole, too content. “Fine,” he admits lazily, tracing circles on Harry’s shoulder. “You can be funny. At times.”

“See!” Harry pops up, propping himself on one elbow so he can grin down at Zayn. “So, what’s the one kind of bone a dog won’t eat?”

Zayn tries to muster up enough energy for interest. “What?”

“A trombone!” Harry announces, and he’s so satisfied with himself that Zayn has to laugh, he’s so filled with fondness for the boy next to him. And he has to roll over so Harry’s pinned beneath him and he can press his laughter back into Harry’s mouth, until they’re both giggling too hard to kiss.


	72. Chapter 72

_**Prompt: Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.** _

“You can’t just sit in here any longer.” Harry puts his hands on his hips to survey the dorm room. It’s dark, the curtains still drawn, and there are dirty clothes in a pile like laundry hasn’t been done in a week, and everything else is still a mess—which is weird because usually it’s fairly neat in here—and Zayn’s curled up in his bed, a baggy hoodie on over sweatpants. He looks like he hasn’t showered in days. He almost—almost—looks disgusting. If he wasn’t Zayn, he would.

Zayn just groans, and curls up farther, pulling the hood up over dirty dark hair. Harry sighs, and crosses the room to sit on the bed next to him, to put his hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “She was just a girl, Zayn.”

Zayn opens his eyes at that. They’re red-lined, bloodshot, and Harry doesn’t know if it’s from tears or alcohol or weed, but any way it hurts. “I loved her.”

“I know.” God, does Harry know. He’d told himself that daily, it felt like, watching them together, just so he remembered. “I’m sorry.” He is. Or he’s trying to be.

“I just…” Zayn blinks, those big doelike eyes gazing up at Harry like for once it’s Harry with the answers. “I wanted to be enough, you know? Enough for her. I tried. And I wasn’t.”

“Oh, Zayn.” As gently as he knows how, Harry lifts Zayn up so he can pull him into a hug. It’s a bit masochistic, as it always is to have Zayn so close, but it’s what Zayn needs. “You’re enough. You’re always enough.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Harry insists. You’d be enough for me, he doesn’t say, no matter how much he wants to. Now’s not the time to burden Zayn with his stupid, hopeless crush. “You are, and being in here isn’t helping. Come on, let’s go out. It’ll distract you.”

“I don’t want to go out.”

“You can get drunk in public, it’ll be great.” Harry eases up to standing, pulling Zayn with him so they’re both upright. “Now go shower, because you smell rank, and I’ll find you something to wear.”

“I’m not letting you pick me an outfit,” Zayn retorts, but there’s a hint of a smile, so Harry takes it as a win as he bullies him through the suite into the bathroom. He goes back to Zayn’s room to choose something, because Zayn has a habit of passive-aggressiveness and might very well choose sweatpants just because. So he digs out the skinny jeans that make Zayn’s ass look fantastic, and a red Henley because Harry loves how he looks in it, and sets them out, then goes back to his room to dig out the beanie he knows Zayn likes to steal. It’s not because he wants Zayn in his clothes when they go out, he justifies, a bit desperately. He has no claim over Zayn, none at all, and he never will, and he knows that. He just wants Zayn comfortable.

By the time he gets back, Zayn’s dressed, which is good, because Harry doesn’t think he could stand watching him get dressed without drooling, and is fussing with his hair.

“You ready?” Harry asks, and hands over the beanie. Zayn gives a small smile at it, and tugs it on. It’s probably a good thing, because Harry was maybe thirty seconds from combing his own hands through it.

“Still don’t want to go,” Zayn mutters, but he’s lacing up his boots. Harry only steals one glance at his ass, because it’s a nice ass. “And you need to get me drunk, if I’m going to dance.”

“I’ll ply you with alcohol, don’t worry.”

“And…” Zayn glances up, bites at his lip. His lips are chapped, probably from chewing at them too much in the past few days, and Harry swallows back the imagined sensation of them against his. “Even if I do get drunk, don’t, like…I don’t want to pull, okay? I’m not, like, I don’t think I could handle that.”

Harry swallows again. “Yes sir! Cockblocker Styles, reporting for duty!” he gives a little salute, and Zayn laughs. It’s worth it, that laugh. Everything’s wroth it, for that laugh. For Zayn smiling again, for Zayn’s hand on Harry’s hip as they leave the suite.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t pull,” Zayn tells him, his breath hot in Harry’s ear as he leans close to talk over the sounds of the other students outside. “I don’t want to cockblock you.”

“Nah.” Harry grins, and pulls Zayn close. This is so unhealthy for him, and he doesn’t even care, because Zayn is laughing. “I’ll just take care of you tonight.”

“You’re the best, Haz,” Zayn tells him, kissing him lightly on the cheek, and Harry almost stops walking. No, he doesn’t say. No, you are, and I wish I could tell you.


	73. Chapter 73

_**Valentine's Day** _

Zayn doesn’t know what he expected when the door to his flat flew open, but he doesn’t think it was Harry. And he definitely doesn’t think it was for Harry to tumble onto the couch without any sort of preamble, then to give him his most pitiful, puppy dog-eyed look with big green eyes. But that is, in fact, what happens, all before Zayn can think to get a word out.

“Zayn,” Harry whines, and manages to keep his pout on as he scoots into Zayn’s space, “I’m alone on Valentine’s Day. I demand cuddles.”

“I’m alone too,” Zayn points out. It’s why he’s in sweats and his most worn tank top, debating how early is too early for the ice cream he hid from Louis earlier that week. Louis is off with his girlfriend, Liam with his, Niall with one of the girls he had pulled last week, and he had figured Harry was out with someone too. Thus, ice cream and action movies, when no one could make fun of him for being pathetic.

And yet, here Harry is, mere centimeters from him on the couch, giving him a plaintive, eyes. “Then you should be demanding cuddles too. We could demand cuddles together. Sad, single cuddles.”

“Like you couldn’t have gone out and gotten a date for tonight,” Zayn retorts. He has no idea why Harry is here, really. Both in the existential, why isn’t he on a date sense, and the practical, how did he get in sense. He is fairly certain neither Zayn nor Louis have given him a key. He wonders if maybe the door has started sensing it’s Harry and opening to that. It would explain a lot, really.

“Zayn,” Harry whines again, and seems to give up on asking for cuddles in favor of just dropping his head onto Zayn’s shoulder, giving him an earful of curls. “Stop being difficult and pet my hair.”

It would take a stronger man than Zayn to resist, so he doesn’t, just wiggles around so he can get his arm out from behind Harry, then starts running it through his hair. He lets out a low, pleased hum at that, a vibrating thing Zayn can feel in his bones.

They sit like that for a few minutes, as Zayn idly types at his Tolstoy essay with one hand. He should really finish this off before he starts on his ice cream and movies plan, he thinks, but he also has a Harry hanging off of him, and that makes things difficult. Makes everything difficult, really, because that’s what Harry does.

Zayn had known when he moved in with Louis that Harry was part of the deal—it’s not like he hadn’t brought Liam, who basically lived in their flat as well—but he hadn’t known it would be like this. Be Harry everywhere, soft and cuddly on the couch when Zayn stumbled out of bed in the morning, making Zayn soup when he was sick, dragging him out to bars and shows and everything when Zayn was getting too wrapped up in his own head. Be Harry wandering around in his pants and nothing else, or lying on Zayn’s bed chatting about nothing at all while Zayn tried to get ready while not thinking about the boy in his bed. He’s sure, if it hadn’t been like all of that, he could have gotten ridden of this nagging, ridiculous crush he’s been nursing since he met Harry. If he could just get some space.

But he can’t, because there’re nights like these too often, when Harry is nestled against Zayn and purring into his neck, with his shirt barely half-buttoned because Harry doesn’t believe in clothes. If Zayn glances down, he can see the smooth expanse of skin of Harry’s chest, the muscles defined there, the smattering of ink that should be—and is—ridiculous, but also utterly endearing, the darker skin of his nipples.

So Zayn doesn’t look down, because he knows that’s there, and he’s got this under control. He keeps pecking at the keyboard, trying to write, trying not to focus on the warmth on his side. He can be Harry’s mate, first and foremost. Two mates spending Valentines Day commiserating about their singleness. He can do this.

“You doing schoolwork?” Harry asks, about half an hour after he sat down. Zayn does look at him then, only polite, and immediately regrets it. Harry’s eyes are half lidded. It’s probably exhaustion, but it comes off as pure sensuality, and his lips are very pink around the words.

“Might as well.”

“’s Valentine’s Day.”

“And, as you pointed out, I’m alone.” He gets an irritated nuzzle at that. “Except for you, fine.”

“Still.” Harry huffs out a breath into the nape of Zayn’s neck, and he firmly tamps down on the shivers it spreads over him. “We should watch a film.”

Zayn spares the Tolstoy essay a single glance. He was mostly done with it anyway. “Yeah, sure. Pick one out. Nothing too sappy.”

“But I like sappy!” Harry protests, and sits up so he can mess around on the laptop. Which is still in Zayn’s lap. Whatever. Zayn can deal.

He focuses very hard on dealing, and then zones back in when Harry lets out a triumphant noise. “Valentine’s Day?” Zayn asks skeptically, reading it off of the screen.

“It’s a not as good copy of Love, Actually,” Harry explains with a shrug, “But I thought, fitting, right?”

“Right,” Zayn echoes, “Because nothing cheers me up more about being single on Valentine’s Day then watching other people not be single today.”

“Stop being cynical.” Harry pokes Zayn on the forehead, right between his eyebrows. “Just because you can pull it off doesn’t mean you should.”

“But it looks so much better on me than optimism.”

“Everything looks good on you, Zaynie.” Harry stretches out to let his hand hover over the keyboard. “You okay with this?”

Zayn’s still swallowing down the rush of pleasure at Harry’s compliment—even though it’s not like it’s anything new, Harry tends to compliment everyone a lot, and Zayn knows he’s not unattractive—so he nods before he really thinks about it. Not that he would have done anything else if he had thought about it, because it gets him one of Harry’s huge, face-splitting smiles, with dimples deep enough Zayn could poke at them, and it’s like all the sunshine February never has is suddenly inside.

“Great!” Harry hits play—then pauses it again, long enough to grab a blanket from another chair and drape it over both of them. Only once it’s arranged to his satisfaction, cocooning them in their own little bubble of warmth and cuddles, does he hit play again.

Zayn only half-focuses on the movie, just enough to know he doesn’t really care to pay more attention. He’s more focused on the boy tucked against him, on the long, slow breaths Zayn can feel against his side, on the way he smells like vanilla and strawberries, on the smoothness of his hair beneath Zayn’s fingers. On how easily they fit together like this, Harry’s cheek against Zayn’s shoulder, thighs pressed against each other, feet tangled, Harry’s hand curled around Zayn’s waist. It’s enough to drag Zayn half to sleep, warm and comfortable and content.

“I could have gotten a date tonight,” Harry murmurs, suddenly, as Taylor Swift cuddles a giant bear on screen. Zayn stops petting for a second, trying to parse that comment, then keeps going. Harry will explain in his own time, he always does.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, Harry lifts his head off of Zayn’s shoulder to look at him. His eyes are very, very green in the dim lights of the living room, and more serious than Zayn’s ever seen them. “But I didn’t want to. Wanted to stay in with you.”

“With me?” Zayn clarifies, softly, a little stupidly, but more just lazily.

“Yeah.” Harry swallows. Zayn follows the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple over the length of his throat. “I always want to be with you.”

It’s easy then, so easy, so natural, to lean down and kiss him, so Zayn does. It’s almost a chaste kiss, long and slow, part and parcel of the dim room and the cozy blanket and the romantic movie on the screen. Harry presses into Zayn, warm and solid and sure, his hand drawing circles on Zayn’s side.

Then it’s over, just as easy, Harry drawing back with a question in his eyes and his hand clutching into Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn just smiles, because he’s sleepy and warm and so very fond of this boy with his big eyes and tempting lips. “Yeah?” he asks.

Harry’s grin flashes, still bright as sunlight. “Yeah,” he agrees, and settles back down against Zayn to watch the movie. His hair rubs against Zayn’s cheek, his foot hooks around his ankle, and Zayn thinks he feels lips press against his neck, feather soft.

Zayn rubs his hand through Harry’s hair, then leans down and presses a kiss to it, feeling Harry let out a long, pleased purr at it. Because he can. Because it’s Valentine’s Day, and neither of them are alone


	74. Chapter 74

**_Prompt:_ _Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move._ **

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Louis informs Zayn. He’s pulled him away from the couch where Harry was all soft and warm against his shoulder, and admittedly Zayn was ready for a smoke but he had been planning to suck it up for the sake of staying cuddled in with Harry. “You aren’t even escalating anymore. You are literally in a relationship and you just aren’t saying it.” 

“We aren’t!”

Louis just raises his eyebrows, and Zayn sighs. They are. He’s not an idiot, he knows that. It’s not like the rush of the Take Me Home tour, when it was all heat and excitement and the looks Harry would shoot him that made him burn, even if they never—well, even if it only happened on stage or in bars, places where they were drunk on adrenaline or alcohol, places where they could always explain it away. It’s been different, this tour. The looks Harry gives him aren’t those looks anymore. They’re softer. Gentler. They make Zayn a thousand times more afraid.

“Okay, maybe we are,” Zayn admits. He runs a hand back through his hair, and doesn’t bother looking at Louis to see his triumphant grin. “Did you pull me out here just to get me to admit that, or…”

“Or the sexual tension is killing me,” Louis retorts. “And if you just—”

“I can’t.”

“Why the bloody hell not? You’re madly in love with him, he’s madly in love with you—”

“You don’t know that.”

“Um, yes, I think I do. What, do you think he moons after everyone he meets? Think he drags everyone into bed with him?”

“He used to do that to you.” Zayn says it quietly, but he’s thought about that, a lot. How infatuated Harry had been with Louis at the beginning, before their friendship grew into something more even, more mature. How it had faded, and Harry didn’t seem the worse the wear for it. Harry might be able to do that, to shake off things that intense—to shake off _Zayn_ —but Zayn knows he won’t. He’s not the kind of person who can shake things off, and he falls too fast and too hard, and Harry hardly ever falls at all.

“It wasn’t…” Louis trails off, and the look he gives Zayn is almost pitying, so Zayn has to look away from it, to the concrete at his feet, his boots a smudge in the twilight darkness. “Zayn, you know we weren’t like that.”

“I know. But, like, you were—” Zayn cuts himself off, shakes his head. “It’s stupid, I know it is.”

“Trust me, Harry never looked at me like he looks at you,” Louis says firmly. Zayn shakes his head again. He knows it isn’t quite the same, but it’s still—they’re still in a band, and they’re still all too close, and Zayn had seen Louis and Harry come together, platonically or not, and then come apart like they were rubber and not leaving any marks on each other. Zayn bruises easily, metaphorically at least. Zayn—

“Ow!” He rubs the back of his head where Louis had cuffed it. “What was that for?”

“You were brooding. Stop brooding, stop overthinking, and go kiss the boy who’s in love with you,” Louis informs him with a glare.

“But—”

“Go!” Louis says, gesturing towards the door, in the voice Zayn’s learned it’s usually not worth disobeying. “It’s just you two in there, Liam and Niall are out for the night, and I’ll make myself scarce. If there are no hickeys tomorrow morning, I’ll be disappointed in you both.”

“Yes mum,” Zayn replies, and stubs out his cigarette.

“I wish my mum had told me that,” Louis shoots back, and as good as shoves Zayn back into the room.

Harry’s still curled onto the couch, barely having moved, like there’s a space he left open just for Zayn to sink back into. He looks up when Zayn comes back in, smiles so brightly it feels like Zayn is blinded by it. He reaches out, his hands grabby at Zayn’s shirt, and Zayn laughs and lets him pull him back into Harry’s, lets Harry rearrange them so they’re wrapped together so tightly Zayn can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

He could tell him, right now. He could tilt Harry’s face up and press a kiss onto his lips and Harry would probably smile and kiss him back, and maybe they would end up in bed tangled together like this but with significantly fewer clothes and it would be brilliant, and there would be marks tomorrow morning.

But once Louis had left (joking) marks on Harry too, and now those aren’t there anymore, faded like the unit they had been, and Zayn—Zayn can’t watch his marks fade.

So he presses his lips onto Harry’s hair instead, and lets this be enough, for now.


	75. Chapter 75

_**Prompt: Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone. (explicit)** _

Harry should have said no. Should have told Zayn that no, he couldn’t be his roommate this year, that he didn’t care if Ant had graduated a semester early and gone off the uni and so he needed someone new to room with for the rest of the year, that he should go ask Louis or Niall or anyone who wasn’t him. He should have said that. But he had been a little blinded by the look Zayn had given him, a soft, pleading glance from under those devastating eyelashes, and a little too high on delight that Zayn had asked him, so he had said yes. 

It had been okay during the winter. During the winter, they slept beneath all the blankets they could handle, so Harry only had to deal with Zayn being around all the time, with grumpy adorable morning Zayn and giggly talkative late night Zayn and Zayn changing in front of him and Zayn Zayn Zayn. Which was bad, but not that much worse than the last three years.

But now this. Now spring is turning into summer, and the non-air conditioned dorms are starting to get hot, even at night, and so there’s no impetus to have to get under the blankets. No reason for them to, when they stumble back to the dorms drunk, hanging off each other like it’s the only thing that’ll keep them up, Zayn giving Harry a friendly pat on the ass that makes him hiss out a breath he hopes Zayn doesn’t hear. In the winter, Zayn would immediately bundle under the covers. But now he just collapses onto the bed on his back as soon as they get in, barely kicking off his shoes before he’s asleep.

Harry wishes he could do that. Wishes that Zayn’s wandering hands—because he’s a touchy drunk, he reminds himself, cuddling with whoever he can get his hands on, and if it’s usually Harry it’s just because Harry’s his favorite and maybe positions himself for it—hadn’t gotten him wired, already half-hard in his jeans from the way they had been pressed against each other when they had come in.

And Zayn’s just lying there. He’s passed out drunk, he shouldn’t be attractive, but he is. And it’s not just that he wears clothes well, though he does, pulling off simple jeans and a white t-shirt like he should be on the cover of a magazine. But Harry’s seen him change now, knows what’s under the clothes. Can imagine it, imagine stripping Zayn slowly, revealing every inch of skin from the ink on his collarbones to the dip of his stomach, his wiry thighs and narrow hips. Harry’s never looked closer than that, never let himself, but oh, he can imagine.

Does imagine, as he fumbles with the button and zip of his jeans and opens them enough that he can shove his hand in, get some friction. Can imagine what it would be like if he was allowed to look. If he could follow the trail of hair at Zayn’s navel, follow it down. Zayn would be hard already, Harry thinks, because it’s his fantasy, hard and aching for Harry to touch him, and he would, touch him everywhere, cover every inch of skin with his lips until Zayn was shaking with all the want and need Harry feels whenever he looks at him. And he’d want to touch Harry too, would run his hands with the tiny callouses from all his painting over Harry, then maybe he’d go down on his knees, take Harry’s cock in his mouth and Harry could look down at him, see his shoulders and the flexing muscles of his back and his bared neck and his lips wrapped around Harry and—

Harry comes into his hand with his eyes fixed on Zayn, praying none of the moans he’d imagined escaped his throat.

He lies there for a moment, collecting himself, as the guilt sets in. Shit. That was maybe the creepiest thing he’s ever done. He’s an awful friend and an even worse roommate. There is a special sort of hell for this. And he’s dirty with the evidence of it.

That last one he can do something about, and it’ll mean he won’t be looking at Zayn anymore. He gets up slowly, creeps over to the connected bathroom to wash his hands, then strips off his jeans. He considers taking a shower, just to prolong the time away from Zayn, from that room, but he’s also getting tired now, so he sneaks back in.

Zayn’s eyes are open, reflecting the bathroom light, and they’re fixed on Harry. Harry can feel his cheeks go immediately red.

“So,” Zayn starts. Harry cuts in, too nervous to wait.

“How much—”

“Most of it.” Zayn’s eyes are glassy, but he’s not slurring or anything; Harry thinks he’ll probably remember this no matter what. “You were looking at me.”

Harry sighs, shifts awkwardly on his feet. This is where he gets kicked out of his room and their friendship and the fleeting hope for more he’s nursed for years. “Yeah.”

Then—Zayn’s lips are curving into a lazy smile. “Good,” he says, and there’s a note in his voice Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard before but it’s getting his dick interested all over again. “Gonna let me look at you now?”


	76. Chapter 76

**_Prompt:_ _Cataglottism - Kissing with tongue._ **

The thing is, Zayn’s a kissy person. It’s weird to people who don’t know him, because everyone thinks he’s so closed off and all, but with people he cares about, Zayn’s free with his affection, especially physically. He’s quick with a cuddle, and once there, he’ll press his lips to forehead-cheek-hair easy as you please. It’s part of the big brother thing, Harry thinks usually. The need to coddle, to comfort. And sometimes it doesn’t even come with a cuddle, sometimes Zayn will just feel like it, will just press a kiss to Niall’s cheek out of nowhere, will laughingly peck at Louis’s nose, will nuzzle into Liam’s neck and press a kiss there just because he thinks Liam needs it.

So Harry’s not really surprised when Zayn kisses him, ever. Not when he presses kisses to his forehead when he’s soothing a hangover away, not when he follows his fingers with his lips over his hair when it’s late and they’re curled together, not when he kisses Harry’s cheek in greeting. Not even when he starts kissing Harry on the lips sometimes, easy casual pecks. It’s just a thing. A Zayn thing. And yeah, maybe Harry wishes it was more—maybe it doesn’t help this stupid, helpless crush he’s always had in the back of his mind—but Harry knows he does it with everyone, and it does mean Zayn loves him, in his way, and that way’s enough. 

“Okay, I’ll get drinks,” Harry announces, when they enter the bar. He’s only just twenty-one, maybe he wants to flaunt it a bit. “Usual all around?”

“Thanks, babe.” Zayn grins, presses his lips quickly to Harry’s before he turns to go find a booth. Harry can’t help his echoing smile, because it’s Zayn, and that kiss felt—well, like always, it feels so close to something. It’s not, but he still can’t help the smile, can’t help the warmth that always starts in him with the pressure of Zayn’s lips.

He doesn’t move for a long minute, as he watches Zayn settle into a booth with the other lads, grinning a bit stupidly. Zayn’s also just been so—so Zayn, beautiful and warm and gentle and nice and funny, and really, how was Harry ever supposed to not? He’s got control of the crush anyway. It’s not a thing. It really isn’t, he reminds himself, when he watches Zayn laugh at something Niall says and press a giggling kiss to his cheek.

Right. Nothing. Harry knows that. He does. He does so much that he smiles his most winning smile at the fit bartender when he orders his drinks, leaning over so his shirt gapes open. He doesn’t need to indulge his stupid crush. He can flirt with whoever he wants.

He comes away with a phone number and five drinks, carrying them back to the table. “Drinks!” he announces, handing them out. Zayn takes his without catching Harry’s eyes, his lips pressed together.

Like it always has been recently, the open seat is the one next to Zayn. It’s not helping anything, like the kissing, but Harry’s dealt with his crush for years, and he can deal with sitting next to Zayn. Especially when Zayn’s in such a shit mood, like now. It’s weird, because he was in a good mood earlier, when they got here, but now he’s just drinking silently, and he’s tense like he gets in bad moods, and he’s got that pinched look.

“You okay?” Harry asks under his breath, nudging him with his hip as Niall and Louis bicker about the game on the TV.

“Am I—yeah,” Zayn spits. Harry draws back, surprised. That’s not just a bad mood, that’s a bad mood directed at him. “Yeah, I’m bloody fine.” He sets his drink down, hard, and pushes at Niall’s shoulder. “Let me out, I need a smoke.”

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks again, because if he did something he’d at least like to know what it is. Zayn scoffs, shakes his head.

“Nothing, Haz. Apparently.” He shoves again, and Niall gets up, lets Zayn slide out. Liam grabs Zayn wrist as he goes, and Zayn pauses, gives Liam a wry smile like he is okay. Okay with Liam, at least. Which means it is Harry he’s pissed at. Harry hasn’t even said anything! He hasn’t done anything.

Zayn shouldn’t get away with that, with being a bitch to Harry just because. It’s not fair. Zayn’s the one who’s doing all this kissing and making it hard to be around him sometime because what was once a silly, offhand crush is getting serious.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells the table, and gets out too.

Zayn’s outside, leaning against the wall, with a cigarette in his fingers. This would all be so much easier if he wasn’t so hot, Harry thinks for probably the thousandth time, and walks over to lean against the wall next to him.

“What’s up?” he asks, when Zayn just acknowledges him with a raised eyebrow and a drag of his cigarette.

Zayn snorts. “Told you, nothing.”

“You’re pissed. You’re pissed at me,” Harry states. “And I’d like an explanation for that, because I haven’t done anything.”

Zayn snorts again, blows out a stream of smoke before he answers. “It’s nothing, Harry. I guess I was just misinterpreting things.”

Harry runs over the last fifteen minutes, but he still can’t think of anything. He’s only said maybe ten words to Zayn before he got mad. “What things?”

“Nothing, okay! I guess I just thought—” He shakes his head, like he’s not going to continue, but Harry reaches out and grabs his wrist. Zayn works better with some physical contact.

“Thought what?”

“Thought that—I don’t know.” Zayn stubs out his cigarette, then uses his hand to brush his hair off his face, fiddling with his ear like he does when he’s nervous. But there’s just Harry here. There’s nothing to be nervous about. “I guess I just thought this was more of a thing. But apparently it’s not, if you’re getting numbers off the bartender, so it’s whatever, okay. I’m fucking fine.”

“You’re mad at me for flirting with the bartender?” Harry repeats. That…doesn’t track. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I guess I have this weird expectation where I think people who are starting something shouldn’t be off flirting with other guys,” Zayn snaps, then flinches back, like he’s said too much.

Harry would much prefer if he said more, actually, because he’s got nothing. “What? Starting something? Me?”

Now it’s Zayn’s turn to look confused. “Um, yeah?”

“With you?” Harry wishes, but he knows perfectly well…

“Yeah?”

“We are?”

“We—” Zayn lets out a laugh that’s almost hysterical. “Harry, the fuck? Did you seriously not notice?”

“You—we are?” Harry repeats. He’s not sure how to process this. Starting something? With Zayn? He can’t—they can’t—he knows his crush is stupid and unrequited, it’s not—he would have noticed, if Zayn had started something. He’s been hoarding all the scraps of Zayn he can get for ages. If he had started getting more—he would have known. “No we aren’t.”

“Harry, we’ve been—like, we’ve been kissing for weeks now. You did notice that, yeah?”

“Well, yeah, but—you kiss everyone.” Harry tugs on his hair, to ground him. “A thing? With me? You want…”

“Oh, Harry.” Now Zayn’s sigh is all fond, and Harry can’t help his own grin, because he never even considered this, but if it is—if he could—“Not like that. I don’t kiss everyone like that.”

“You kind of do, though,” Harry has to point out. “How was I supposed to notice? You could have said something.”

“Fine.” Zayn’s lips are twitching, and then suddenly he’s in front of Harry, pushing him into the wall, and his hand is on Harry’s neck, drawing him in. “Do I kiss everyone like this?”

Then his lips are on Harry’s, and they aren’t like before, that casual pressure. This is—this is anything but casual, this is meaningful, this is pointed, this feels so good, and then Zayn’s licking at his lips and Harry moans and opens his mouth and Zayn’s tongue slides in, and fucking hell, Harry never even imagined he could get this but he wants so badly.

“There,” Zayn says, when they finally break apart. “Proof enough?”

“No.” Harry’s panting, but he thinks he could float away, could just explode from the everything. “I think you need to prove it to me again.”

Zayn laughs, and tugs him in to do just that.


	77. Chapter 77

**_Prompt: Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss._ **

“Haaaaaarry!” Zayn’s laughing as he launches himself at Harry, and Harry catches him with only a bit of fumbling. It’s not often it goes like this, Harry catching Zayn, Harry making sure Zayn’s okay, but he can do it when he has to. And there’s a part of him that loves it,  loves when Zayn lets down his guard and chooses Harry as the one to take care of him. Even if it’s just because he’s wasted out of his mind. “Harry!”

“That’s me!” Harry agrees. Zayn’s caught Harry’s shoulders; he doesn’t seem like he’s planning to move away any time soon. Harry’s not exactly objecting. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Zayn vows, laughing. His hands drop down to Harry’s hips, so he’s making them move together, off rhythm to the music but Zayn’s so amused by it Harry’s okay. Then he presses up onto his tiptoes to whisper into Harry’s ear, “I’m pretty far gone.”

“I noticed,” Harry giggles as Zayn pinches his side. Even high, Zayn hasn’t been like this for ages, this easy with Harry. It’s been like there’s some sort of wall he’s brought up between them, like it’s back at the beginning when neither of them understood each other. Like everything that had happened between them—all the build up, the slow burn, the late night talks and teasing touches and the touches that weren’t so teasing—had all gone up in flames that one night, and Zayn had forgotten all of them. It wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t the same. “You only dance when you’re high.”

“That’s because I am such an awful dancer.” Zayn wraps his arms around Harry’s neck to bring him closer, so they’re pressed together, and it’s getting a lot less funny now. They haven’t been this close since that night—since a night a lot like his one, when they fell giggling into bed together and Harry had woken up to one of the worst hangovers he’d ever felt and a Zayn-less bed. “Dance with me, Haz, you make me a better dancer.”

“It’s ‘cause I’m such a good dancer.” Harry can’t help it, can’t help how their hips start to move together, how well they move together.

“You are. So good.”  Zayn laughs again. His hands are in Harry’s hair, just fiddling with the ends and it feels so good, like it never feels with anyone but Zayn. “You were so good, know that? Best I’ve ever had, I never told you, never told anyone, but no one’s felt like you did, no one.”

“Zayn!” Harry yelps, his fingers tightening on Zayn’s waist. He doesn’t need to hear this. He wasn’t the one who left. But on the other hand, he wants to hear this, wants to know he broke Zayn for everyone else, even if he did run. “I was?”

“Fuck, yeah, god,” Zayn’s pulling his head down now, so Harry has to hunch but Zayn can whisper in his ear, like they always do, his lips flicking over Harry’s ear, “Better than I even imagined and I imagined a lot, babe.”

Harry’s almost speechless with it, with Zayn’s lips hot against his ear—then against his cheek, and his neck, hot and a bit rough and so overwhelming. And Zayn’s still talking, chatty like he only gets when he’s high, pressing words into Harry’s skin that Harry doesn’t care if everyone sees.

“So good, don’t even regret it, not even if it was just a fuck to you, just once, it was worth it—” his teeth scrape over Harry’s jaw just as his hips roll against Harry’s and Harry moans, can’t not, he can barely hear what Zayn’s saying under his touch. “You were, you always are Haz, always.”

He presses his lips behind Harry’s ear, then pulls back, so Harry can see his face, the bloodshot eyes and almost manic smile. He is so wasted, and Harry barely cares, not when his fingers are around Harry’s face, tracing the lines of his cheeks so very gently. He’d touched Harry like that back then, too, almost reverently, like if he pressed hard Harry would break. No one’s touched Harry like that, not before or since, and it’s all Harry can do not to purr at that pressure, at the feeling of Zayn close to him again.

“Yeah? Come on, we’re both wasted, we can, yeah?” Zayn says, nonsensically, then he’s pulling Harry forward, so their lips collide, and just like last time it’s so good, Zayn’s mouth on his.

But last time had left Harry with an empty bed and a hole in his heart, so, “Zayn?” Harry asks, pushing Zayn off of him. Zayn goes, but he’s eyebrows are furrowed and he looks more confused than sad.

“No, we’re wasted, I’m allowed, that’s how you wanted it, yeah? It’s just messing around between mates, so it’s okay.” He pushes forward, but Harry gets a hand on his chest before he can. “Harry,” Zayn whines, “I’ve been good, I haven’t—”

“You aren’t making sense!” Harry insists. He has the odd urge to cry, because he’s wanted this again for ages and now Zayn is too fucked up to explain what he means. “Why now, Zayn?”

“Because it’s what you want,” Zayn explains, like that makes sense. “I just want to kiss you, Harry, fuck, your lips, babe. It’s nothing, it doesn’t have to be, I’ll ignore it again in the morning, I promise, I just have to kiss you right now.”

“Ignore it?”

“Like you want, it’s not anything, but—Harry,” Zayn babbles, pressing himself close again. “Please, Harry.”

“You need to go to bed.” Maybe that’ll make everything make sense.

“No, I need to kiss you.”

“You’ve lived without it for a year,” Harry retorts, before he can think better of it.

“But I’m allowed now, because we’re both wasted.” Zayn’s looking at him with those big eyes, like any of this is making sense. “I can’t waste it.”

Harry sighs. “Why does being wasted have anything to do with it?” Sure, they’d been drunk the last time, but that had just been—liquid courage, Harry guesses.

Zayn blinks, long and slow, like it’s not processing. “That’s why you let me,” he explains, like he’s talking to a young child. Like Harry’s stupid, and Harry hates it when Zayn takes that tone with him, like he’s one of his younger sisters, because Harry is not a kid, no matter how Zayn tries to coddle him. “I have to keep it inside otherwise.”

“Inside?”

“Always.” Zayn grabs Harry’s hand, puts it on his chest. His right chest, but Harry thinks it’s probably supposed to be over his heart. “You’re here. Always. Inside. But we’re wasted so it’s allowed outside.”

“You left.” It’s not connected, but maybe Harry’s absorbed some of the high from Zayn, because he thinks it is. Because it connects, like one of those connect-the-dot puzzles where they’re just a jumble of dots until the picture emerges.

“Because we weren’t wasted anymore, so I had to put it back inside.” Zayn gives him another big-eyed look. “It’s been inside a long time. I’ve been so careful about it.”

“Zayn.” Harry can almost feel his own heart expanding, can feel Zayn’s beating under his hand. Zayn’s lips flick down to Harry’s lips. “You don’t—yeah, please.”

“Thank god,” Zayn breathes, and finally kisses Harry again, and it tastes like vodka and cigarettes and weed and Harry’s never tasted anything so good. They can talk about this in the morning, when they’re sober.


	78. Chapter 78

**_Prompt:_ _Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you._ **

Sometimes, Harry wonders if they should be more concerned about the whole ‘secret’ part of his and Zayn’s relationship. He’s been good about it, really. He plays with Niall and Liam on stage, goes very publicly off to LA where everyone can see him and no one will notice Zayn flying in after him, or when he also flies back to London for a few days to spend them with Zayn. He smiles and banters when interviewers ask him about his relationships, is seen dancing with other people at clubs even if he always showers after, to wash their scent from his skin before he presses close to Zayn in bed and tries to fill himself with his scent.

But Zayn…Zayn’s kind of shit at it, really. It’s such a joke that the press and everyone call him the mysterious one, the stoic one, because he can literally not lie to save his life. It worries Harry sometimes, actually, how quick he is to answer interviewers, to pour himself out there, because it always somehow comes back to hurt him, but Zayn can’t stop.

And sometimes it doesn’t worry Harry. Sometimes, it’s the best thing in the world, how Zayn can’t keep his expressions to himself. Sometimes that’s because when Harry’s sad and alone and can’t be with Zayn for stupid reasons he can pull up pictures of him and look at how Zayn’s looking at him and it makes him feel better, chase away all the stupid doubts that only come when Zayn’s not there.

Other times, though, it’s even better. Other times, it’s like now, with Zayn back at the booth talking with Louis while Harry dances, and he knows he looks good dancing and he knows everyone’s looking, but then he looks up and it gets even better. Zayn’s still at the booth, but Louis’s talking to Liam now, and Zayn’s just _looking_ at Harry. Zayn looks like pure sex tonight, in his jeans and tank top and messy hair, and god his look is too, half lidded with his lips curving into a smirk.

Harry swivels his hips and shakes out his hair, and watches Zayn’s tongue flick out to lick his lips. He can almost feel the heat of his gaze, how it settles heavily over him, how it feels like Zayn can see right through him. Zayn’s always been able to see through him, but now it’s like he’s just seeing him, and Harry revels in it. He can put on a show, for Zayn watching him like that, like he’s half a second away from coming over and devouring him right then and there. So Harry just closes his eyes to let the feel of Zayn’s gaze sink into him and dances, because it doesn’t matter what it looks like to everyone else it just matters that Zayn knows he’s doing this for him, because they can’t really dance together.

Then he opens his eyes, and Zayn is still looking at him like that, slumped slightly back in his seat with his legs spread like he’s just waiting for Harry to fit in between them, like in his mind they could—and fuck Harry wants that, but they can’t, so he winks at Zayn and stumbles off the dance floor to go find a driver. He gets to the hotel first, and by the time he’s there he’s nearly shaking with it, with the need for _Zayn Zayn Zayn_ that’s been filling him since Zayn first looked at him in the club. He falls back onto their bed and clenches his fists in the blankets, because he’s going to wait. Wait for Zayn and his hot-eyed gaze, like he was stripping the clothes from Harry’s skin right there, like he was fucking him without even touching him, like he was claiming him with everything he had.

Harry groans a bit at the thought, rolling his hips—and that’s when Zayn comes in.

He just stares at Harry, that gaze raking over him, over his desperation and love and need.

“Off,” he orders hoarsely, a sharp snap of the word, and Harry doesn’t hesitate to comply. Zayn’s gaze feels even better against his skin, and his fingers even better than that.


	79. Chapter 79

**_Prompt:_ _Gargalesthesia - The sensation caused by tickling._ **

When Zayn was little, he hated being tickled. His sisters, of course, knew that, and did at every opportunity, so Zayn had gotten good at avoiding it, but the distaste remained. There was something about it—about laughing even when he didn’t feel like it, about when he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe until he felt like he was choking with it, until the happiness itself was going to drown him—that terrified him, almost as much as the thought of really drowning. 

The hatred—the fear—has faded with age, of course, like most of his phobias, but it’s still there, a bit. Enough that when Liam’s tickle attack starts to bleed over from Louis onto Zayn, Zayn pushes him sharply away, gets up and leaves the room. Enough that he bats Niall’s hands away rather than let him get his sides like he does the other boys. Eventually, the boys get it. They don’t understand it, but they accept it, like how he doesn’t like them touching his hair and how sometimes he needs space. They’ve all got quirks.

And then—and then there’s Harry. And then there’s Harry and his dimples and hair and shoulders and laughter, and how he makes Zayn feel. How he can feel them coming together, inevitably, like a tidal wave. How somehow it becomes not ‘if’ but ‘when’, and then just ‘yes’, and suddenly Zayn is drowning again, in Harry, and he loves it—loves him—but…

“You scare me,” he murmurs, one night. It’s dark, which is the easiest time for him to say things like this, to tell the deeper truths. It’s always been easier in the dark, for both of them, secrets in their bunks late at night.

“Yeah?” Harry’s barely awake, but for once Zayn is awake, tracing the lines on Harry’s chest. “I’m terrifying, I know. Rawr.”

“You couldn’t scare a kitten,” Zayn retorts, laughing. Harry sticks out his tongue.

“Could.”

“Could not.”

“Could too! Where is a kitten, I need to scare it.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Zayn laughs—and there it is. He’d been melancholy a moment ago, pensive, and now he’s laughing. That doesn’t happen to Zayn. His moods don’t just turn like that.

“No, you are,” Harry retorts, and grabs for Zayn’s hands. “How do I scare you?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No.” Harry’s eyes are open now, and they’re giving Zayn that look he can’t resist, like nothing would make Harry so happy as hearing Zayn right now. “If you’re afraid, it’s not nothing. How do I scare you?”

“It’s stupid.”

“I don’t care.” Zayn laughs again. It’s so Harry. It’s so the perfect thing to say. “What?”

“Nothing. You’re…” but he trails off, because he doesn’t have words for what Harry is.

“Zayn.” Harry clasps Zayn’s hand, lifts it off his chest so he can hold it in both of his. “If you’re scared, I need to know why. I want to know why.”

Zayn shakes his head again, but Harry squeezes his fingers tighter. “Zaaaayn,” he whines, pouting, “Zaynie, you’ve got to tell me, please?”

“You just…you make me really happy,” Zayn mutters. It’s so, so stupid, but it’s Harry, so he tells the truth.

He’s waiting for laughter, for the teasing. But instead Harry just gives him a lopsided smile. “Yeah,” he agrees, “You make me happy too.”

“No, like, that’s what scares me. I don’t—”

“Yeah,” Harry says again. He lets go of Zayn’s fingers to pull him closer, not to kiss, just to cuddle. So Zayn can find some sort of solid ground in Harry’s skin, can remember how to breathe when he feels Harry’s chest moving up and down. Can find an anchor in Harry’s tidal wave. “I know. It scares me too, sometimes.”

Just the words make Zayn feel like he’s choking again, like he’s going to drown—then Harry’s hands stroking down his back, soothing, and somehow, it’s all calm again.


	80. Chapter 80

**_Prompt:_ _Lygerastia - The condition of one who is only amorous when the lights are out._ **

They start in the dark. 

On a balcony facing away from the crowded city, so it’s just the two of them and the stars, and Liam snoring inside because he’s sharing with Harry. It starts under those stars, when Zayn leans over and kisses Harry softly, surely, not like a surprise or a question but like a continuation. And Harry kisses him back like that too, with warmth filling him up inside because Zayn’s lips are gentle against his and he’s wanted this for what feels like forever.

The next morning, Harry grins at Zayn when Zayn stumbles downstairs to the hotel lobby for breakfast, and pulls him into the chair next to him. Zayn smiles back, soft and fond, and hugs Harry with one hand while he eats, but when Harry lifts his face waiting-hoping-needing a kiss, Zayn turns away. That’s fine, though. Harry gets it. Zayn’s never been big on PDA, and this is new.

—

It doesn’t stop there. It’s kissing in corners and Harry’s gaze eating Zayn up on stage and want-need-hope everywhere, but it’s also a fact of their life that they never get privacy, so they don’t actually get a chance to do anything for a week, until another hotel night, when Harry manages to wheedle Paul into letting them share by taking a page out of Louis’s book and annoying him until he gives in.

But that night, they’re finally alone, and Harry’s pretty proud of himself that he gets the door closed before he climbs on top of Zayn. Zayn laughs, and his hands come up to Harry’s hips, and Harry leans down to kiss him like he’s been wanting to for ages, like it’s all he can think about, like—

“Are you okay?” he sits back. Zayn’s hands are still on his hips, but Zayn wasn’t really kissing him back, and that’s…if he wants this more than Zayn…

Zayn bites his lip, and his brow furrows, and Harry steals himself for the catch. He should have known this couldn’t happen, that he’d wanted for too long—

“Yeah, just, like…” Zayn trails off. Harry pokes at his chest.

“What?”

“Can we turn off the lights?”

“But I want to see you.” Harry wants to see all of Zayn, because all of him is worth looking at.

“I…” Zayn’s hands tighten on his hips. “It’s, like, easier? For me. With the lights off.”

His brow is still furrowed, and Harry thinks he’d do anything just to see Zayn smile again, so, “Yeah, sure.” He gets off of Zayn to go to the switch, flicks it off. It’s suddenly dark, dark enough that Harry stumbles twice trying to get to the bed, but when he finally falls onto the bed he barely touches the sheets before Zayn’s rolling over him, so he’s straddling his hips and his hands are on either side of his face and all Harry can see is Zayn, dim but there, and he’s not frowning anymore.

Harry tries his best to grin, when he thinks he’s lost all ability to speak in the face of Zayn’s smirk. “Better?”

“Much,” Zayn agrees, and this time when he kisses him Harry knows he wants him just as much.


	81. Chapter 81

**_Prompt:_ _Baisemain - A kiss on the hand._ **

“I’ve always liked your hands,” Zayn observes. He’s maybe a bit high, and a little more sentimental than usual because Harry’d just finished blowing him and there’s nothing like sex when you’re high, but it’s true. He picks up Harry’s hand from where it was lying on his stomach to inspect it, the long fingers, the broad palms. “They’re my favorite.” 

“Thought all of me was your favorite.” Harry’s words come out even slower than usual, with the high, but his eyes are smiling.

“Your hands are my favorite favorite,” Zayn explains. “They’re so big.” He puts his own palm against Harry’s to demonstrate, how Harry’s fingers hang over his.

“Maybe yours are just small.”

“No, yours are big.” Zayn removes his palm to trace the lines on Harry’s hand. “Fit over me so well.”

“Maybe all of you is small,” Harry points out. Zayn sticks his tongue out at him. “Not that!” Harry protests, giggling. “But you’re small in general. Except your prick,” he allows, generously. “That’s just the right size.”

“And the rest of me isn’t?” Zayn protests, but he’s laughing too. “Not my fault you’re a giraffe.”

“’m not!” Harry seems to think nuzzling into Zayn’s shoulder helps prove that point, and Zayn’s not going to complain.

“And you use them so well,” Zayn goes on, still holding up Harry’s hands to inspect. He presses a kiss to the center of it. Harry giggles again. “Just right on me.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks. Zayn nods. He likes tasting Harry’s palm, so he kisses it again, then licks the lines he was tracing earlier. Maybe he’ll be part of Harry’s life line, or his love line, or his something line. Maybe he’ll be a part of Harry. He moves up to Harry’s thumb, then his pointer finger, kissing the tip of it before he licks down.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Harry breathes, and with a tug he’s on top of Zayn, though Zayn’s still got Harry’s hand trapped in his. “Think it’s time for me to use that hand.”

Slowly, Zayn guides Harry’s fingers into Harry’s mouth, his cheeks hollowing out around them as he sucks, as Harry’s eyes widen and go hot. He thinks it’s time too.


	82. Chapter 82

**_Prompt:_ _Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips._ **

People always underestimate Zayn’s lips, Harry thinks. It’s understandable, because there’s so much of him to estimate, and even Harry sometimes gets lost in the eyes-cheekbones-eyelashes-shoulders-hair-everything combination so he can’t find his way back, but still. Everyone always talks about Liam’s lips—and they’re quite nice, don’t get Harry wrong—or Harry’s own—which again, he likes quite a bit—but right now Harry thinks they haven’t got anything on Zayn’s.

Or maybe it’s just that Zayn’s the worst tease to ever tease sometimes. He’s just sitting there, listening all intently to the interviewer like Harry should be, but he’s got the stubble of not having shaved in a few days, so his lips look even pinker than usual, and then his tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and Harry twitches.

“You okay, Harry?” Niall mutters from the seat next to him, while the interviewer is focusing on Zayn’s answer about the newest album.

“Fine.” Harry does his best to look away, he does, but then the interviewer asks something that’s a little more invasive, and Zayn bites his lip like he does when he’s a bit uncomfortable, and Harry really should not get hard on a televised interview, he shouldn’t.

“You don’t look fine,” Niall observes. He totally knows, too, Harry’s sure of it.

“I’m fine,” Harry repeats.

“You’re staring.”

“Shut up.”

“So, do you have any comments?” the interviewer turns to Harry and Niall, and maybe Niall isn’t totally awful because he gives his big laugh that diverts her attention completely. Zayn just smiles at Harry, his lips curving in an echo to his eyes.

Harry’s not sure how he gets through the interview. All he knows is that the moment the interview is over—the moment they finish shaking hands and smiling and are ushered away, the moment there is even the tiniest bit of privacy—Harry’s grabbing Zayn and pulling him into a corner, grabbing at his face.

Zayn just grins. “In a hurry, babe?”

“You’re awful,” Harry informs him, his thumb moving over Zayn’s lips to trace them. Zayn’s tongue flicks out again, over Harry’s finger, and his whole body shivers. “Really awful.”

“You sure?” Zayn laughs, “Saw you staring.”

“Awful,” Harry repeats, and kisses him until he can’t think enough to be awful anymore.


	83. Chapter 83

_**Prompt: one of them being so so cheesy** _

“Is that a rose, Harry?”

“Yep!” Harry grins, dimples deep in his cheeks. “And there’s a poem to go alone with it!”

Zayn feels like he probably shouldn’t encourage this sort of ridiculousness, but he can’t help kissing Harry then, the rose crushed between them.


	84. Chapter 84

_**Prompt: adopting a dog together** _

It takes a full two months, some sex things Zayn never thought he’d even consider but were actually pretty good, and a lot of negotiating, but here they are–Zayn has their dog in his arms, a golden retriever pup that’s licking wildly at his face, and even has deigned to lick at Harry once or twice. 

“Here’s your new home,” Zayn murmurs to her, running his hands over her silky fur. “You’re going to love it, aren’t you?”

“You certainly are,” Harry adds, and when Zayn looks up he’s looking at them so fondly Zayn can’t tell if it was addressed to him or the pup.


	85. Chapter 85

_**Prompt: Fan/Idol (explicit)**_  

“I’m not a fan.” It’s the first thing the guy—Zayn, he had said, back downstairs at the bar—says once they hit Harry’s hotel room. “I don’t even really listen to your music.”

Harry could really care less what the boy listens to, but he sort of loves that he says that right away. It’s lovely, a part of the general loveliness of the boy, all dark hair and hazel eyes and cheekbones. As long as he’s okay being here, Harry doesn’t care if he listens to Justin Bieber. But, because he likes to play the game, he asks, “Oh? Heard of me, though?”

“Who hasn’t?” The boy is still hovering near the closed door. He’s not as confident as he seems, not as cocky as he had come off at the signing, when Harry had seen him and known he wanted him, slipping him a note along with the signed photo—for someone named Saafa, so probably legitimately a sister. But he’s a bit nervous to be here, Harry thinks. “My sisters are fans.”

“Seen my picture around?” Harry asks, and walks forward slowly. If the boy backs away, or looks unwilling, he’ll tell him to go, no questions asked. But the boy doesn’t retreat, just tilts his head up to look Harry in the eye. It’s mostly bravado, but when Harry comes closer so he can whisper in the boy’s ear, he sees interest there too. “Thought about it?”

“No.” It’s quick enough that Harry’s almost certain it’s a lie, and he grins to himself as he cages the boy’s hips with his hands.

“What’d you think about me doing?” he asks, letting his tongue flick out to lick at the boy’s earlobe. He’s got an earring in. It’s not usually Harry’s thing, but he likes it now, enough that he bites idly at it. The boy twitches beneath his hands.

“Told you, I didn’t think about you,” the boy retorts. Harry nibbles experimentally on his ear, and feels a tremor go through him.

“Did you think about me fucking you?” he asks, and runs his tongue all along the curve of his ear, until he can press a kiss to the skin just beneath it. “Think about what it would be like, if I were taking you apart?”

This close, he can see the boy swallow. “No.”

Harry pauses. “No, you didn’t think, or no, stop?”

That gets the boy to pull away far enough to give him an incredulous look. “Do I look like I’m asking you to stop?” he demands, and it’s so put out and incredulous and lovely that Harry has to kiss him then and there, to taste those pink lips surrounded by bits of stubble. The boy immediately moves his hands to grab Harry’s face and bring him closer, pressing up into him eagerly, and this is Harry’s favorite, the contrast between his defensive words and the way he’s so ready for Harry.

He kisses him long and slow and hard, coaxing the most wonderful little moans out of him, before he moves away to start kissing down his neck. He’s shaking again, like Harry’s the only thing holding him still, and Harry can feel his erection already pushing against Harry’s thigh. Harry’s not much better off, so he figures he can move this along.

He breaks the kiss to strip his own shirt off in a smooth motion, then grabs at the bottom of the boy’s t-shirt. He pulls it off slowly, teasing himself as much as the boy squirming as he runs his hands up his sides. There’s so many surprises—all the tattoos, some wiry muscles, the loveliest dark brown nipples that Harry flicks a finger over to see if it gets another moan (it does, but not like Harry gets when his are played with). For a second, when the shirt is over the boy’s head, Harry’s tempted to leave it there, keep him wrapped up so Harry can take his time, but then the boy pushes his hips desperately against Harry’s and Harry relents, tossing the shirt away.

The boy who emerges is a little more rumpled, his hair a little messed up from it’s sharp quiff, his shoulders a little looser, like some of the bravado’s gone away, and so Harry needs to kiss him again, this time when he can touch. And be touched, because the boy is moving too, his fingernails digging into Harry’s back in a way that hurts just right, enough that Harry lets out a groan of his own.

They keep kissing as Harry walks backwards, pulling the boy along by fingers in his belt loops and their lips locked together, until Harry hits the bed and his knees bend, bringing the boy down with him, on top of him. He’s not heavy but he’s got presence, and it’s hard to ignore him when he’s still shaking and squirming.

“So what do you want to do?” Harry asks. “Got any fantasies you need to live out?” he’s found that people are pretty enthusiastic about living out their fantasies in a way that means great sex for him.

The boy shrugs. He looks disconcertingly nonchalant, for the fact that Harry can feel how hard he is. Then he slithers down to the floor between Harry’s legs, and yes, Harry can go with that. He makes short work of Harry’s jeans, yanking them and his boxers down almost fiercely, then Harry helps the rest of the way by lifting his hips so he’s naked, and his cock is hard and heavy.

The boy looks at it for a moment, then leans forward to take it in his mouth, and Harry bites back a groan at the wet heat of him, the way he swirls his tongue over the head and leaves wet kisses to the side, and the way he looks up at Harry as he does, his eyes shaded by long lashes, like a question and a dare. Harry can’t help it, can’t help but smooth a finger over his cheekbone, cup his chin as he sucks and Harry uses all his willpower not to just thrust into his mouth, not to come.

He doesn’t want to come just yet, so he pulls the boy back, gently, by the hair, and grins at the annoyed look it gets him. “Don’t want to come in your mouth,” he says, and the annoyance disappears. “Come on, get up here.”

The boy goes easily, climbing into Harry’s lap to kiss him again, their hips rolling together. The scratch of his jeans is deadly against Harry’s achingly hard cock, and he thinks—knows—by the way the boy’s hips are jerking when Harry palms at his ass that he’s ready.

“How do you want this?” Harry asks, licking at Zayn’s ear again, because it’s there and even now it makes the boy shudder.

“Thought I was here to make you feel good,” the boy retorts. Harry laughs. He’s not had this much fun in ages.

“I’ll feel good if you feel good,” he promises, and gets a bit distracted tasting the skin at his neck before a low moan brings him back. “Any ideas?” He bites again, and the boy shakes his head along with the rest of his body, curling forward into Harry like the skin contact alone will give him release. “Want to ride me, then?” Harry suggests, and that gets a nod.

“Great. Lets get these off, then,” he says, and manages to work his hands down to Zayn’s fly, then to ease his jeans off. He’s not wearing anything underneath them, and Harry’s mouth goes a bit dry at that. Had he expected—well he must have, Harry slipping him the note. Had he planned? Had he thought about this, maybe wanked off in the time between thinking about him?

“Planning ahead?” he teases, and the boy wrinkles his nose at Harry, looking oddly feline for someone half out of his jeans.

“Weren’t subtle, mate,” he retorts, and then he’s scrabbling at his own hips to push off his jeans. Harry helps him, runs his hands over wiry thighs and calves, digs his thumb into his ankle to see if it gets a reaction.

It’s only once he’s fully naked that Harry leans back to look at all of him. His cock is as lovely as the rest of him, bobbing against his stomach. He’s cut, and Harry reaches out to run his hand over the head in interest. Zayn jerks, and Harry grins. “Not going to last long, are you?”

“Depends how good you are,” comes the retort, and Harry laughs again, before he reaches to the side for the lube.

“Babe, I’ll rock your world,” he promises, and Zayn snorts as he snatches the lube from Harry.

“Bad line,” he says, and Harry loses his retort in the sight of Zayn shifting back on his spread legs, working a finger into himself with his head tipped back like there was nothing better.

Zayn makes quick work, businesslike—or Harry prefers to think of it as being in a rush to get on Harry’s cock—as Harry runs a lazy hand over himself, occasionally reaching out to stroke at Zayn’s too, which gets him a low whine every time. The third time he does that, Zayn draws his three fingers out of himself and sits back up.

“Want you,” he says, and fuck if Harry doesn’t agree, sliding the condom on almost frantically. Zayn climbs up him slowly, almost languidly, then grips Harry to lower himself down. He pauses just as Harry’s cock spreads him apart, and Harry grips at the sheets to give him time, not to start thrusting right away.

He moves the rest of the way down slowly too, taking his time, his face screwed up like he’s considering, and Harry’s biting down on his lip so hard he thinks it might scar, because he feels so good, tight and hot around him until finally he’s bottomed out. He still doesn’t move, because he doesn’t know what the boy has done, doesn’t know what he can do—then it’s Zayn who pulls himself up and sinks down again, fucking himself on Harry’s cock.

He can’t hold back anymore, and the next time Zayn lowers himself down his hips thrust up at the same time, and Zayn’s head tips back with a cut off moan, so Harry does it again, and again, his hands moving to hold Zayn’s hips instead. His cock is throbbing in front of him, and so Harry lets go of one hand to stroke it. Zayn makes another one of those moans, his eyes closing, and Harry thrusts hard the next time in the face of that look, then starts moving over Zayn’s cock in earnest, trying to match the rhythm he’s fucking him.

“Feel so fucking good, babe,” Harry mutters, nonsense words he’s never learned to keep track of. “Fuck, taking me so well, look so pretty. God you’re good, look at you, so glad you’re here, Zayn, fuck—” but Zayn is quiet, just those sounds that make Harry go faster. He’s shaking beneath Harry’s hands again, but it’s not nerves now, he’s on the edge, and Harry gives him a firm, long tug at the same time he fucks into him hard and Zayn comes on another breathy moan, his come spurting into Harry’s hand, his face contorted in bliss that makes Harry throb, that’s the loveliest thing Harry’s ever seen.

He goes limp over Harry after, breathing hard, and Harry doesn’t know what he wants so he pulls him off gently, rolls them over so Zayn can lie back on the pillows, his eyes closed, a soft smile on his face. It’s so fucking pretty, all delicately carved features and delicate eyelashes and sharply arched eyebrows.

“Can I come on your face?” Harry asks, and the boy nods, his eyes still closed.

It’s Harry’s turn to straddle him, one hand working over his cock. He’s been so close that it barely takes him a minute, of thinking of how good Zayn had been and what he could be, then he’s coming too. It stripes over those cheekbones and onto his lips, catches in his eyelashes and even gets in his eyebrows, and something in it hits Harry hard, this beautiful boy with him all over him.

Zayn’s tongue peaks out, licks the come off of his lips into his mouth, and Harry shudders. Zayn’s lips curve into a smile again, as Harry forces himself to climb off of him to get a washcloth.

He cleans Zayn off as gently as he can, wiping the come off with a delicate touch, then collapses next to him, tucking Zayn’s head into his shoulder when the boy doesn’t seem to want to move.

“Live up to expectations?” he asks. He should probably kick him out. In five minutes, he will.

“Didn’t have any, told you,” Zayn replies absently. He turns his head to press a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. It’s sweeter than Harry knew, sweeter than he’s had in a long time. “But yeah. It did.”

Fine. Maybe ten minutes.


	86. Chapter 86

**Prompt: size difference/shower sex/clothes sharing (explicit)**

Harry wakes up to the sound of his alarm sifting softly into his dreams. It’s a nice way to wake up, his favorite song and the sun slowly filtering through the curtains and—the best part, Harry thinks—Zayn’s arm over his waist, and the feel of him against his back. He shuts off the alarm, yawns, and turns over, so he can look at the boy next to him.

Zayn’s still asleep, obviously, but Harry has to smile at him. No matter how many he times he’s seen it, there’s still nothing like the sight of Zayn asleep, his eyelashes feathered over flushed cheeks, his hair messy around his head from sleep and Harry’s hands last night, his mouth curved into a slight smile. Harry wishes, like always, he could let Zayn sleep forever, let Zayn stay in whatever dream was making him smile like that.

Unfortunately, they have things to do and places to be, and Harry doesn’t really want to let Zayn stay anywhere that Harry can’t follow for too long, so he reaches out, shakes Zayn slowly. “Zaynie, time to wake up.” It doesn’t get a response, so Harry shakes a little harder. “C’mon, Zayn, you’ve got to get up.”

“No.” Zayn doesn’t open his eyes.

“Yes.” Harry grins again, and cups Zayn’s face with his hand. “Wakey wakey eggs and bakey!”

“Shut up.” Zayn makes to yank the blankets over his head, but Harry catches them with the ease of long practice.

“Shower time, up and at ‘em,” he says, and pulls the blankets down. Zayn groans, and flips over. He’s in boxers and one of Harry’s old t-shirts that he likes to sleep in, that’s comfortable on Harry so it’s too big on him, draping over him. Harry gets a bit of a thrill each time he sees it, sees Zayn wanting Harry wrapped around him every way he can.

He’s as gentle as he can be when he pulls Zayn up. Zayn’s like a cat in the morning, heavier than he should be, but Harry manages to get him to standing, then wraps his arms around his waist to walk them into the bathroom, his knees pushing the backs of Zayn’s thighs so he’ll go. Zayn’s not usually this bad in the mornings, but they got to sleep late last night, and Zayn’s never really been able to function on less than seven hours.

Whatever the reason, Zayn just leans against Harry once they get to the bathroom, his forehead resting against Harry’s shoulder, his whole body lax. It makes Harry’s heart beat a bit faster that Zayn trusts him this much, that he just lets Harry pulls his shirt off, then ease both of their boxers down. Harry turns the water on to heat, then pulls Zayn to the twin sinks. “Brush,” he orders, and hands Zayn his toothbrush before picking up his own.

Zayn nestles into Harry’s side while he does, like he needs the warmth. Harry wraps his free hand around Zayn’s shoulders, pulls him under his arm. Zayn awake is always larger than life in his mind, filling up space with dark-eyed smolders and the sharpness of his presence; it’s only when he’s like this, soft and pliant and trusting, that Harry remembers he’s actually a small person. That he fits like this, under Harry’s arm. That it’s easy, once they’ve finished brushing, for Harry to walk him into the shower.

He turns them so he’s under the spray first, so Zayn will have time to wake up, and lets Zayn lean against his chest while he quickly washes and conditions his hair. Zayn seems content just to be draped there against Harry’s heart, his eyes closed like he’s fallen back to sleep. Harry tips his head back to rinse the conditioner out of his hair, then gets more shampoo on his hands.

“Okay, Zayn,” he says, “Head back.”

Zayn lets his head tip back, and Harry slides his fingers through his hair, pulling it into messy tufts so he giggles and Zayn gives him a sleepy, soft-eyed smile. He’s starting to wake up, his fingers making circles on Harry’s back, but it doesn’t make it harder for Harry to turn them so Zayn’s under the spray again, and he can rinse off his hair. They’re both wet now, their skin sliding against each other, and Zayn’s pressed tight to him because it’s the only way to keep him upright, so Harry’s cock is starting to get a bit interested. Harry glances at the waterproof clock; they have a bit of time.

“Gotta sit down for this part,” he tells Zayn, though.

Zayn pouts. “Don’t wanna move.”

Harry laughs, and settles Zayn on the bench anyway. Zayn slumps forward, like his head is too heavy. “’s okay,” Harry soothes, running his hand down the Zayn’s spine, feeling how smooth his skin is under the water. “You can wake up nice and slow.”

Zayn grunts, which Harry takes as the closest he’s going to get to assent, so he lathers up soap on his hands. He starts on his shoulder, moves down to his wrist. He forgets, sometimes, just how skinny Zayn’s wrists are, he thinks, as he presses a kiss to the pulse point. How…not fragile, just delicate. Elegant, maybe, so Harry’s hand can wrap all the way around them easily. Sometimes he feels too big around Zayn, big and clumsy and oafish where Zayn is all sharp edges and delicate grace, but not right now. Right now, Harry feels just the right size, the right size to slowly soap up Zayn’s torso, tracing over the lightly defined abs, scratching his finger over each tattoo. Zayn makes a noise that might be a moan when he gets too near a nipple, even if he hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but Harry ignores it to keep exploring, down his narrow chest to even narrower hips, skinny thighs. They could probably fit two of him in one of Harry.

It’s only then that he lets himself detour to Zayn’s cock. It’s started to react to Harry’s slow, lingering touches, so when Harry runs a soapy hand over it Zayn’s twitch and moan is audible. Harry ducks his head, grins. This is his favorite way to wake Zayn up.

He slides his hands down Zayn’s cock, then chases them with his lips, moving over the hot, wet flesh smoothly. Zayn moans again, but just leans back, loose and open to Harry’s playing. And Harry wants to play, tasting the head of his cock before he swallows him down again, his fingers moving over Zayn’s balls as Zayn’s muscles start to clench.

He lets go of Zayn’s cock for a moment to pull him down more, so he’s almost hanging off the edge of the bench, so Harry can keep his mouth on Zayn’s cock and slide his other hand around to his ass. Zayn whimpers, and Harry hollows out his cheeks to suck as he slides a finger in slowly. He never gets that sound outside of bed, barely even gets it in bed except when Zayn’s like this, and fuck but he loves it, loves knowing that Zayn lets him in enough to beg and want like that.

Zayn’s muttering things now, nonsense words like he gets when he’s getting close, and Harry slides another finger in. His own cock is hard, but that’s almost incidental in the moment, with Zayn’s skin shimmering with the water, with the taste of him in Harry’s mouth. Zayn’s started to move, to thrust up into Harry’s mouth and down onto his fingers like he can’t decide which is better, and his hands are clenched on the edge of the bench, though his eyes are still closed, and he’s so fucking lovely like that, like some sort of work of art, that Harry has to swallow him down deeper, and he crooks his finger to find—

“Fuck,” Zayn moans, quiet and hoarse, “Fuck, Haz, I’m gonna—”

Harry doesn’t pull off, just crooks his fingers again to hit Zayn’s prostate and Zayn swears and comes into Harry’s mouth. Harry swallows and swallows, until Zayn’s gone limp onto the bench. It’s the sight of him like that as much as anything else that gets Harry off, as he wraps his fingers around his cock to jerk off fast and hard, of Zayn with his hair wet around his face and his lips curved into a smile.

When Harry can feel the water on his back again, Zayn’s pulling him lazily up onto the bench, sucks the taste of him from his tongue. “Morning.” He grins. Even now he’s so soft, so open, like he only gets with his family or with Harry, and Harry wants to bottle it up so it’ll last forever.

Harry grins back, kisses him back, quick and light. “Morning,” he agrees. “Awake now?”

“More or less.” He still lets Harry pull him to his feet, and leans idly on him as Harry turns off the shower. But he goes back into their room while Harry putters around the bathroom fixing his hair, so when Harry comes out five minutes later, towel around his waist, Zayn’s already dressed.

Or, sort of. He is dressed. But Harry’s breath catches when he sees him—which isn’t necessarily an unordinary reaction when he sees Zayn. And especially not when instead of the sharp, stylishly put-together armor he so often puts on when he goes out, Zayn’s in loose jeans and a sweater—a sweater Harry knows is his, because it’s too big for Zayn, hangs loose around his hips and covers his hands and gapes around his neck. It makes him look smaller, softer, especially with his hair still unstyled; it makes him look like Harry needs to wrap him in blankets and protect him from the world. He would, God, he would if he could, even though most of the time Zayn’s the one protecting him. But he would carry Zayn over lava if he needed it, would fight all his battles for him if it would help.

It wouldn’t, and Harry knows that. Knows that Zayn can take care of himself, and that the softness is as much an illusion as anything, that Zayn’s the one who saves him from falling over and running into fire and saying stupid things. But Zayn’s sleepy-eyed and wrapped in his sweater like it’s a shield to protect him from the world, and then when he sees Harry watching he sidles over, wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and pushes up on tip-toes to press a kiss to Harry’s lips, and Harry—Harry’s lost.

He keeps kissing Zayn, like they can only breathe if it’s the other’s air, and wraps his hands around Zayn’s thighs, urging him up. Zayn giggles into Harry’s mouth, but he lets him pull him up, so Zayn’s legs are wrapped around him and it’s Harry who’s holding him up, so Zayn’s just concentrating on kissing Harry, trusting Harry not to drop him.

It’s only a few steps to the bed, then Harry’s letting Zayn down, careful not to jar him when he lets go. Zayn just smiles. “We already took a shower.”

“We can take another,” Harry retorts. He’s already working at Zayn’s jeans, but when Zayn goes for the hem of his shirt—of _Harry’s_ sweater—Harry hisses and grabs his hand. “Keep it on.”

“Kinky,” Zayn chuckles, but it’s a little broken, and Harry can hope it means he likes the idea too, of Zayn in just Harry’s sweater and Harry. It’s short work to get rid of Zayn’s jeans and boxers, to discard them over the side of the bed, then Harry noses at Zayn’s hip, right over the heart.

“Flip over.”

“Bossy,” Zayn teases, but he rolls over. From the back the sweater looks even bigger on him, like he’s swimming in it, like everyone who sees it knows it’s not his it’s his boyfriend’s who he wants near him always and trusts the most, and something about that goes straight to Harry’s cock. It doesn’t help that it comes to rest right over the edge of Zayn’s ass, so the small, cute curve of it is all Harry can see.

“Not much to see there,” Zayn mutters. Harry just laughs, and spreads Zayn’s cheeks with his fingers. His other hand he plants on the small of Zayn’s back, and fuck it just fills up that space, Harry’s sweater and his hand.

“I love your ass,” Harry tells him sternly.

“You mean the negative space?”

“I mean this.” Harry nips at Zayn’s cheek and Zayn mutters a curse into the pillow. “Your ass is lovely, Zaynie. Just the right size. All of you is just the right size.”

“That a dick joke?” Zayn asks, but then Harry’s licking around his hole, watching as the muscle flutters, and he goes silent on a gasp.

Zayn’s already open for him, from Harry’s fingers earlier, but he’s also so open for him in some other way, this Zayn no one sees but Harry, small and delicate and giving under Harry’s lips as he presses a kiss to Zayn’s hole, that makes him want to tease. Makes him want to make Zayn fall apart for him, until his sweater’s tangled around him and Zayn’s aching. So he kisses Zayn’s rim again, then slides his tongue slowly in, barely enough pressure to give Zayn any satisfaction. Zayn groans into the pillow, and his hips buck, but Harry pushes down with one hand, keeps him down. He goes back to teasing licks, spreading spit with his tongue and watching Zayn shudder under him.

“ _Harry_ ,” Zayn whines, and he’s shifting against the sheets, trying to get some sort of friction. It makes the sweater ruck up more, over the arch of Zayn’s spine, so Harry could count each of Zayn’s vertebrae if he wanted, that lean line of his back. Harry grins to himself and pushes his tongue in harder, thrusting now so Zayn moans again, rocking back until Harry pins him back down, his hand covering almost all of Zayn’s back.

It’s the sight of that that pushes Harry off, that makes him give Zayn’s rim one more lick before he’s shifting up, kissing up Zayn’s spine until he’s hit the edge of his sweater. He could probably keep going, could probably fit under it—but instead he strokes over Zayn’s ass, soothing.

“You good?”

“Haz,” Zayn pants, and Harry presses a kiss to the back of his neck before he circles Zayn’s rim with his finger this time, then slides it in. He adds another quickly, then another, Zayn clenching around him, his whole body arching with it. Harry slides a hand up under the sweater to rest between his shoulder blades, petting there lightly to keep Zayn calm, and Zayn just chokes out Harry’s name again, rough and broken.

There’s another sound only Harry gets, only Harry knows how to get, and he needs more of it, needs Zayn in every way he can, needs to be in Zayn now because he’s hard again and Zayn’s so lovely and desperate under him. But he wants to see Zayn, wants to see Zayn’s face with his messy hair and unguarded eyes, so he pulls his fingers out. Zayn makes a complaining noise, but Harry just pushes at his hip until he gets the picture and rolls onto his back.

And god, that’s even better, because if Zayn’s back is poetry his front is art, from his messy hair to his flushed cheeks to the look in his eyes, soft somehow despite the desperation. Harry slides his hands up under the sweater, because he can, because he likes to see the outline of his hands moving over Zayn’s ribs under the sweater, layers upon layers of Harry wrapping Zayn in warmth. Then he draws his hands back down, around where Zayn’s cock is stiff, to his hips.

He slides in slowly, letting Zayn adjust, his fingers tightening over Zayn’s skin to quell the urge to just thrust into him. Zayn lets out a low moan, brings his legs up to wrap around Harry’s waist, then nods. “C’mon, babe,” he urges, so Harry starts to thrust in, trying for slow, long torturous strokes that will hopefully bring Zayn slowly up to the edge, like Harry’s the one who will carry him there. Like Harry’s the one taking care of Zayn for once, bringing him up and up and up. Zayn’s head tips back, his eyes screwing shut and his teeth digging into his lip as his hands go up to Harry’s shoulders to hang on.

Harry wraps his hands over Zayn’s hips to change the angle, to shift so he hits Zayn’s prostate and Zayn moans even though his teeth, and Harry can’t help but rake his gaze down all of Zayn, over the sweater rucked up around his chest and down to where Harry’s hands are around him. It’s almost like Harry could wrap himself around him completely, the way his fingers encircle Zayn’s hips, like he could just wrap himself around Zayn completely and keep him safe, keep him soft and sleepy and never having to put on his armor ever again. Like he could maybe pin Zayn here in bed and keep him here forever.

“ _Harry,”_ Zayn moans. His fingers scrape hard against Harry’s shoulder. “C’mon, Haz, touch me, please—”

Harry takes a second to nuzzle at Zayn’s hair, then he obeys, taking letting go of Zayn’s hip reluctantly. But then he’s got a hand around his cock, and that’s better, to both be buried in Zayn and to be able to stroke him off to the same rhythm he’s thrusting in, as Zayn just holds onto him like he trusts Harry to do it for them both. Like he trusts Harry to be strong enough to hold him.

So Harry does, fucking into Zayn and jerking him off as Zayn mutters nonsense words into his neck, until he’s seconds away from coming and he knows Zayn is too, from how his body is tensing.

“You’re good,” Harry murmurs, “Zayn, you’re good, I got you, you can—”

Zayn comes, his oaths muffled in Harry’s skin, his fingers scratching at his shoulders as he holds him close and coaxes him through it, stilling the ache in him until Zayn stops shaking and lets go of Harry so Harry can ease him back onto the pillows. Zayn smiles up at him, all loose and open and with everything he feels in his face, all that love shining in his eyes, and god Harry wants to freeze this moment forever, with him over Zayn like a blanket and Zayn smiling up at him like it’s everything he ever wanted in the world and Harry deep inside Zayn, even if he’s breathless with need.

“Harry,” Zayn says, his voice rough, and he lifts up a hand to stroke Harry’s cheek. Harry grabs it, and he half means to hold it there but he gets distracted by the look of his fingers around Zayn’s wrist again. Zayn lets him hold it, still with that sleepy smile on. “Go on, babe,” Zayn hums, and that’s enough.

Harry moves their hands so they’re planted next to Harry’s head, Harry’s hand still encircling Zayn’s wrist, and he thrusts again, watching as Zayn’s eyes flutter closed, his eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, Harry’s sweater up around his chest, and Zayn feels so good around him and he looks so good and—the orgasm shakes through Harry, crashes over him as his hips jerk and Zayn’s other hand is stroking in his hair.

Harry collapses on top of Zayn, breathing in the sweat and coconut shampoo scent of him, just feeling the warmth of him under him. He never wants to move. Never ever.

“Babe,” Zayn says, quietly. His hand is hot on Harry’s back. “Babe, breathing.”

Harry muffles an irritated groan in Zayn’s hair, then slowly pulls out. He can’t help the interest as his come seeps out with him, even if Zayn is making a face.

“Now I’ve got to shower again,” Zayn complains. Harry laughs, and nuzzles his neck.

“Not worth it?”

“Always worth it.” Harry grins, to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. “Best way to wake up.”

“Good.” Harry rolls over, so he can watch Zayn sit up. He should probably shower too, really, but he doesn’t quite trust himself to get in with Zayn. Instead he watches as Zayn stands, the sweater falling back down so it’s loose around his hips, but not enough that it covers his ass, or the way he doesn’t walk quite as smoothly as usual, which is confusingly hot because Harry never wants to think he hurt Zayn, but something in him thrills to knowing he did that.

Harry lies there for a moment while he hears the water being turned on, then drags himself to his feet, and heads over to the wardrobe, where he digs out his biggest, softest sweater so he can set it temptingly on top. He knows his Zayn, knows he’ll go for another one of Harry’s sweaters, so Harry will get to see everyone seeing Zayn in his clothes.

And maybe, later, after they’re all done and come home, Harry will peel it off Zayn again, and coax more of those sounds only he gets out of him.


	87. Chapter 87

_**Prompt: Harry trying to show Zayn how much he loves him by showering him with presents** _

Zayn opens the latest present slowly, unwrapping it with careful fingers to keep the wrapping pristine. Harry always wraps them, like Zayn wouldn’t notice otherwise.

It’s a sketchpad, really lovely and high quality with a leather cover that’s smooth to the touch. It’s not like he can’t afford this, but still…Zayn looks up to where Harry’s grinning hopefully at him, squirming like a puppy waiting for a treat. “You know you don’t have to, like, buy my love, right?” he asks.

Harry ducks his head, blushing a little. “I just want you to know I appreciate you,” he mutters, and Zayn laughs and runs his fingers over the leather. He’s pretty sure he knows.


	88. Chapter 88

_**Prompt: Zarry being really cute and in love and cuddling (maybe on the 15 hour long flight to Australia)** _

“You wore leather pants for a flight this long?” Zayn raises his eyebrows at Harry. Harry just grins, and lifts up the armrest between their seats. Harry had left his house while Zayn was still only just waking up and wasn’t really registering anything, so this is the first time Zayn’s seen him all day, and he’s enjoying the way Zayn’s gaze lingers.

“Was kinda hoping not to wear them for some of it,” Harry counters, cheeky. In front, the flight attendant is making their safety announcement, but they’ve been on so many planes Harry could probably recite it from memory. And anyway, Zayn probably shouldn’t listen, or he still starts to get a little nervous.

“We’re not on a private plane,” Zayn laughs. He throws an arm over Harry’s shoulders though, when Harry leans in, and his fingers immediately start to toy with the hair escaping from under Harry’s beanie. Harry buries his grin in Zayn’s scarf. It’s a bit unfortunate, because as nice as the scarf looks it’s not warm and comfortable like Zayn’s skin, but he’s still warm and comfortable.

“Never stopped us before.” When Zayn just laughs again, Harry lifts his head to bite at the underside of Zayn’s jaw. “Zaaaayn, I want to join the mile high club.”

“Babe, I think we’re presidents of the mile high club.” But Zayn turns and presses a kiss onto Harry’s forehead, just as the safety announcement finishes, and Harry closes the compartment so they’re as shut off as they can. He’ll push the issue a little later, when more people are asleep and Zayn’s bored, because he did not put on these leather pants for nothing. But Zayn’s still morning soft, even as they start to taxi, and Harry’s comfortable right here, wrapped in Zayn.

He stiffens as they get to the runway, so Harry takes a quick glance around, then pulls Zayn’s mouth to his to kiss him just as they start to accelerate, soft and slow enough that it lasts until they’re in the air, and Zayn won’t be nervous anymore. Then Harry keeps kissing Zayn, because he thinks he could spend a lifetime kissing Zayn and not be tired of it, just their mouths moving together and Zayn’s hand at the back of his neck and Harry’s hand inching under Zayn’s shirt.

He doesn’t know when they stop, because they never really separate. They go from kissing to sharing breath to Harry’s head back on Zayn’s shoulder, Zayn’s ankle hooked over Harry’s and his hand tracing patterns on Harry’s shoulder through his shirt. It’s a little more innocuous, for when the flight attendant comes by, but Harry can feel Zayn’s even breathing, his heart beating steadily under his chest, and it’s comforting.

“Hey,” Zayn says at last. He’s not looking at Harry, staring out the window, and Harry doesn’t like that, so he pouts until Zayn looks back at him, smiling softly. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For, like, letting me stay back with you. ‘S been nice.”

Harry smirks. “Really? How nice?”

“I’m serious,” Zayn retorts, but his lips twitch. Nice. Like they hadn’t made a good start in fucking in every room in Harry’s house. Like they hadn’t woken up this morning tangled together, like Harry wouldn’t be finding things of Zayn’s in his house for months, like Zayn wasn’t wearing one of his beanies. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Zayn hums. Harry noses his way through the scarf to finally get to Zayn’s neck, where he can lick it properly. No biting, with the award show basically as soon as they touch down, but he can still taste. “Really. Any time.”

“Really? Even though I’m leaving the band?” Harry can’t tell if it’s the jolting of the plane or the words that have Zayn tense. “And on drugs, and driving Paul away?”

He’s laughing a little as he says it, not like he was that evening, when Harry had convinced him to stay so he could ease out the tension rumors always caused him. (And maybe because of how he looked that night, sleek and beautiful in black, with that stupid lock of hair that had Harry sitting on his hands to resist tucking it back in every time he saw it. But mainly the tension). Harry likes to think he’s part of that, but still, he wraps his arms around Zayn’s waist, pulls him in closer.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he informs Zayn, sternly. He’s not letting go.

“I know.” Zayn shakes his head. “But—still, I needed it, so, like—”

“Nowhere,” Harry repeats, holding on. He thinks he’d rather like that to be literal, actually. For Zayn to stay right here with him forever, twined so tightly that they could meld together.

“Yeah?” Zayn’s laughing, but his grip on Harry’s shoulder’s tightened too, like he needs to remind himself he’s here, and that they all know that.

The fasten seatbelt light clicks off. Harry reaches down to unbutton his seatbelt, then lets go of Zayn, trading that for the greater good of straddling Zayn’s hips, a knee on either side of him. Zayn’s eyes widen for a second, then his hands settle on Harry’s hips, and he’s grinning as Harry leans down so he can whisper in his ear.

“Yeah,” he purrs, his lips brushing Zayn’s cheek, his ear. “For the next fifteen hours, you’re stuck with me.”

“Think I can last that long,” Zayn chuckles, and turns his face to kiss Harry properly.

Harry pulls back. Zayn’s beanie is midway through being pushed off, and his cheekbones are stark, highlighted by the stubble, and his eyes are sparkling like they only do when he’s really happy. “What about longer?”

Zayn’s hands tighten on Harry’s hips, like he doesn’t want to let go either. “I could last a while longer.“

"How much?”

Zayn’s still smiling, his eyes crinkled into crescents, his whole face lit up. “I think I might be able to manage forever.”

“Good.” Harry pushes the beanie back so he can properly get a hand in his hair. “I can work with that.”


	89. Chapter 89

_**Prompt: Intimidated** _

Zayn takes one look at the competition, blinks, and turns away, only to run into Louis’s shoulder.

“No.”

“No, what?” Louis asks. He’s close enough to Zayn that he can’t do what he wants, which is to run away.

“No, I’m not singing.” Zayn explains. It’s a pretty easy concept, he thinks. He hadn’t even wanted to sing in the first place—he’d told Louis a thousand times that talent shows were stupid—but then Louis had recruited both his mum and his sisters and somehow even his dad had gotten involved and now here he was. Now here he was, looking out on the stage to see fucking Harry Styles singing. “It’s pointless. Did you see who’s on?” 

Louis glares. “You’re just as good as him.”

“I’m not,” Zayn counters. He isn’t. Even if his voice was—which he’s not at all sure it is—he’s not Harry Styles. No one but Harry Styles is Harry Styles, and Zayn’s not even sure he really is—no one can actually be that weird, that charming, that hot, and that nice, all at once. He’s not sure, of course, but he’s guessing it’s a myth.

“Well, you’re still going to sing,” Louis argues. Sometimes, Zayn thinks he needs a new best friend. “And by that I mean…right now.”

He shoves, and Zayn basically stumbles onto stage. The lights are bright in his eyes, and the emcee must have said something but he couldn’t hear it and all he can hear is the murmurs and he’s just Zayn, how is he supposed to be here, where Harry Styles just was?

Then the music starts. And this—this Zayn knows, the music, and how to hold his microphone to his face, closing his eyes so it’s just the music. He knows how to sing.

He holds out the last note as long as he can, longer than he thinks he ever has. He draws in a deep breath, not because he needs it but to center himself. Then he opens his eyes.  

He still can’t really see anything, but there’s applause, thundering of it, and Zayn smiles for maybe the first time tonight as he bows, at the applause and cheers and that no one was comparing him to who went before. He tumbles off stage into Louis’s waiting arms, and Louis whoops and pulls him into a bit of a jig before he lets him go. He spins out of that, stumbles—and ends up against someone’s chest.

“Hey,” comes the voice, low and slow. Zayn’s eyes widen, and he backs away. He knows that voice. Everyone knows that voice. “Zayn, right?”

Zayn swallows. So Harry Styles is talking to him. So Harry Styles is looking at him, and his eyes are just as big up close, and those dimples are even worse near to him. He can keep it together. “Yeah,” he agrees. He wishes he had a cigarette, if only to give him something to do with his hands.

“You were really awesome!” Harry exclaims, grinning happily. “That was—like, man, who’ll remember me after that? I didn’t know you sang!”

“Yeah, well…” Zayn tries to think of something to say that isn’t, ‘you’re insane no one was paying attention to me after you’, but he’s never been good at talking on the fly, “I—”

“He sings,” Louis says, saving him by coming up behind Zayn and hooking his chin over Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn lets out a relieved breath. Louis’s good at talking for him when he can’t think of the right things to say. “Pretty well, you can see. As well as you.”

“Yeah?” It sounds more like a question than a statement. That’s not an unusual way to react to Louis. “It was definitely amazing! Amazayn?” He grins at his own joke, and Zayn can’t help but smile back, even if he’s heard it a thousand times, and he knows Louis is rolling his eyes. “Anyway, I’m Harry,” he tells Louis, holding out his hand like everyone in school doesn’t know who he is. “Oh, I guess I never said that? I’m Harry,” he repeats, to Zayn, but Louis’s the one who catches his hand.

“Louis,” he informs Harry, in his most suspicious voice.

“Hi!” Harry’s gaze flits between them, then, “So, like, are you…”

“Nah,” Zayn says, before Louis can decide to prank Harry, “Best friend. Who doesn’t always know the meaning of personal space,” he adds, elbowing Louis. Louis just holds on tighter, rubs his cheek against Zayn’s.

“You love me really.”

“Sure.” Harry’s still smiling, though, those devastating dimples, and why is he still here? There must be cooler people for Harry Styles to talk to. “So—”

“Yeah! Anyway.” Harry glances down. In someone else, Zayn might think he was unsure. “So, like, do you want to practice together, sometime? Or, like, swap tips or something? We could get coffee?”

Zayn blinks. He didn’t—that couldn’t—“Or, I don’t know, do you drink coffee?” Harry’s still talking, maybe because Zayn’s sort of forgotten words again. “I guess they serve tea, or we—”

“He’d love to,” Louis interrupts. “Are you free tomorrow?”

“What? I mean, yeah!” Harry’s grin brightens, even if there’s a hint of confusion, probably because Louis’s sort of taken over as Zayn’s mouth. “I could do tomorrow afternoon.”

“That works. He’ll be there at three.” Louis decides. “Clearly you two will have a lot to talk about. He’s very excited.”

“Is he?” Harry asks, but he’s smiling, not like he’s making fun of Zayn, just like he’s amused, and how is he hot and nice at the same time? Zayn doesn’t understand, he should be making fun of Zayn right now, how Zayn’s not always good with talking. “Well then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Zayn.” He grins, winks. “I do love your voice. Would love to hear more of it.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says at last, which is at least words. “I mean, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye!”

Harry winks one more time, then saunters off, his hips swaying so Zayn can’t look away from his ass in his tight jeans.

“See?” Louis says, smug like Zayn will be hearing about this for weeks, “I told you you had to sing.”


	90. Chapter 90

_**Prompt: Furious** _

“Just fuck you, Zayn.”  Harry yells.

“No, fuck you!” Zayn snaps back. They don’t fight often, but when they do it’s like this, huge explosions, yelling at each other from opposite sides of the living room. “It wasn’t my fault!”

“You knew exactly what you were doing!” Harry retorts. “I’d asked you specifically not to, and then—”

“And then I fucking forgot!” Zayn interrupts, before he can, “And I said I was sorry, so what is the big deal?”

“The big deal is that you forgot!” Harry’s face is flushed and he looks a little crazy. He is a little crazy, more than a little crazy, because this isn’t anything and yet he’s yelling like the fucking universe ended. “I asked you not to do something and you did it anyway.”

“Well I’m sorry you don’t like my hobbies—”

“I don’t like having to bail you out of jail!” Harry spits. “Fucking damn it, Zayn, you were arrested!”

“I wasn’t arrested, I was held briefly, and just because I didn’t notice—”

“You were in jail! You know what I’m going to say when people ask what I did on my Friday night? Oh, I bailed my boyfriend out of jail!”

“Just because they’re against a little beautification—”

“It’s vandalism, Zayn! And it’s illegal! Stop—”

“Oh, great, now it’s just fucking vandalism, I feel so supported.”

“I’d support you doing something with it!” Harry yells. “I’d support you sending things to galleries or applying to school or jobs! I don’t support you getting arrested!”

“For the last time, I wasn’t arrested.”

“You could have been!” Harry crosses the room all at once, so he’s in Zayn’s space. “You could have gone to prison! Then where would I be?”

“Better off, apparently,” Zayn retorts. “You wouldn’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“You—you—” Harry’s mouth opens and closes a few times, and Zayn starts to jump on the chance—then Harry’s lips are on his, harsh and bruising and demanding, and Zayn grabs onto him and kisses back just as hard, hands twisting in his hair to hurt. Harry growls and grabs his ass, and Zayn pulls himself up until his legs are wrapped around Harry and he gets a better angle to bite at Harry’s lip until his mouth falls open and he can slide his tongue in.

“This doesn’t mean I’m happy with you,” Harry tells him, as he bites at Zayn’s neck hard enough it’s going to bruise.

“I’m pissed at you,” Zayn pants back, rolling his hips desperately as Harry’s fingers dig into his ass, “Now fucking kiss me again.”


	91. Chapter 91

**_Prompt: Possessive_ **

Harry’s plane is late.

It’s not a big deal, just an hour or so that Harry spent at the airport sending excited texts to Zayn, but it does mean that after Harry gets home, jumps into Zayn’s arms, and Zayn carries him to bed, they only have time to get off once before they have to leave for Harry’s welcome home party, and that’s not nearly enough. It’s been three months of long distance, three months of just Zayn’s voice and what he gets on Skype which is never enough, and Harry thinks he needs to spend at least that long in bed with Zayn to make up for it.

But he does appreciate Zayn planning this party for him, because Zayn hates planning parties in general and he did this to get everyone together so Harry can say hello to everyone at once, and he wants to say hello to them, so they manage to get out of bed and get to the bar only thirty minutes late.

It’s lovely, seeing everyone again, and if Harry keeps a firm grip on Zayn’s waist the whole time, well, no one comments. Least of all Zayn, who follows Harry around and just leans on him as Harry talks, smiling fondly and kissing his cheek at random moments, apparently just because he can, because he’s there. Harry agrees. He finds himself touching Zayn all the time, a hand in his hair, on his face, stroking over his cheekbones, just to convince himself he’s finally there.

Harry’s deep in conversation with Liam about the producer he met when Zayn presses a kiss to his cheek, whispers, “I’ve got to go say hello to someone,” and slips away. Harry frowns, and pulls Zayn back in for a real kiss before he leaves, savoring the feel of his lips against Harry’s at last, but then he lets him go, and goes back to talking to Liam.

Liam turns into Liam and Louis, then Louis and Eleanor, and it’s only then that Harry realizes Zayn’s been gone for a while. He glances around to check—and Zayn’s in a corner, talking with someone. Laughing with her, really, loose and relaxed.

“Who’s that?” Harry asks, interrupting Eleanor’s story about her work. 

Louis grins. “That’s Casey.”

“Casey?” Harry echoes. He’s heard about Casey. She’s a new coworker of Zayn’s, who he gets along with well and works well with. What he hasn’t heard is that she’s hot, and that she makes Zayn laugh like that when it’s Harry’s job to do that, and that she touches Zayn’s arm like she has a right to.

Harry trusts Zayn. It’s not jealousy. What he doesn’t trust, though, is other people’s ability to control themselves around Zayn, because he knows first hand how impossible that is, and—and Zayn’s sort of effectively been boyfriendless since she met him. She might think she has a chance. It’s only fair, really. That she learns otherwise.

So Harry excuses himself form Louis and Eleanor, ignores Louis’s knowing smirk and Eleanor’s eyeroll, and finds his way across the room.

It’s a beautiful feeling, to be able to just drape himself over Zayn’s back, to be able to wrap an arm around his neck to pull him into Harry’s chest. To just feel him here, that he’s real and right where Harry needs. But it’s also a bit hard to appreciate it when the woman Zayn’s talking to is so hot, with loads of blonde hair and pretty great tits, or so clearly into Zayn, with the way she leans over to display those tits.

“Hey, babe.” Zayn grins, though, and reaches behind him to pat at Harry’s side. “This is Casey. Casey, Harry, my boyfriend.”

She smiles pleasantly enough; Harry tries for a charming grin but it probably ends up more of a bearing of teeth. “Hi,” Harry says, reaching around Zayn to hold out his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Her voice is low and smoky, and Harry lets go of her hand to wrap his other around Zayn’s waist. Zayn leans back against him, and Harry resists the urge to smirk, because Zayn’s warm and sharp in his arms. “Had a good trip?”

“Yeah. Glad to be back, though,” he says, nuzzling into Zayn’s neck. Zayn tilts his head to the side, to give Harry better access. Harry’d missed this place before, he needs to lick it to make sure it’s still the same. It is, but Harry should probably lick it again, to make sure. “Missed my Zayn,” he adds, and feels Zayn smile.

“Clearly,” she agrees coolly, and stands up from her stool. “Thanks for inviting me Zayn, but I should get going.”

“Oh, really?” Harry asks, smiling as big as he can. She’s probably quite nice really, he’s sure. As long as she is aware he is home now and Zayn is not boyfriendless at all and Harry will be reclaiming every inch of skin as soon as they can leave and he can go home and really take their time. “So soon?”

She smiles again, less coolly. Harry almost feels bad. “Sorry. Welcome home, Harry. I’ll see you at work?” she says to Zayn.

“Of course. Thanks for coming!” She nods again, and leaves.

It’s only once she’s gone that Zayn extricates himself enough from Harry to turn around and face him, hands on Harry’s hips. “That was a bit unnecessary,” he says, but he’s smiling, and he’s there, and Harry’s really not sorry at all.

“I’m saving her future heartbreak,” Harry explains. His hands are conveniently around Zayn’s neck, so he can pull himself closer like that. Zayn’s hair is longer now, so there’s more curls at the nape of his neck for Harry to play with. He likes it. He thinks they need to explore it more. “Just making sure she knows.”

“Knows what?” Zayn drawls, grinning as Harry hooks a leg around his calf.

Harry shows his teeth again. “You’re mine,” he hisses, and tugs Zayn in to kiss him firmly. “And I’m not letting you go again,” he goes on, kissing down Zayn’s neck, to that point that always makes Zayn moan when he bites it. He nips at it—and sure enough, Harry can feel his breath stutter. “Never.”

“Can we go home now?” Zayn asks, hoarsely, and Harry grins into Zayn’s neck, kisses it again for good measure.

“Yes, please.” Harry’s going to taste every inch of his skin. He’s going to leave marks on every inch of his skin, so everyone who sees Zayn knows he’s home now. “Now?”

“Now,” Zayn agrees, but he just pulls Harry up to kiss him again, to hold him closer, and Harry, Harry doesn’t have any complaints.


	92. Chapter 92

_**Prompt: nervous because Zayn's going on a blind date (turns out to be harry)** _

The thing is, as Zayn’s told Louis a thousand times, he’s not actually very good at dating. He makes a good first impression—he’s not blind, he knows he’s hot—but he doesn’t actually know what to say most of the time. He’s just really bad at small talk, and that’s what a date is. He’s really good at being a boyfriend, he’s always thought, at the actual relationship parts, but getting there is the worst.

Louis, however, apparently interprets that as an invitation to set Zayn up with people. He’s not entirely sure if it’s so Zayn can get practice, can get laid, or because Louis thinks the newest cat Zayn adopted means Zayn’s going to be a crazy cat man if he doesn’t do something, but it’s annoying, especially because Zayn has a bit of a problem saying no to Louis when he gets all serious and worried.

None of Louis’s seriousness and worry, though, will make Zayn a better date. And Louis’d actually been optimistic about this one—though again, it’s unclear if it’s because this Harry is easy or because he thinks they’ll actually get along—which only means that if this goes wrong, it’s worse, and Louis will give him his best ‘you’re going to die alone’ look.

Zayn drums his fingers over the edge of the wine glass. In an effort to not be late for once, he managed to show up fifteen minutes early, so he’s been sitting here for ten minutes, getting more and more sure that this is stupid. The restaurant is too fancy. He’s too dressed up, in his black button down and shirt. The all black thing will drive him away.

Or maybe it’ll be the opposite. Maybe this Harry will be hideous. Maybe he’ll throw spaghetti at Zayn. Maybe he’ll be weird and horrible. Maybe he’ll actually be in love with Louis, which happened once and was pretty awful. Maybe—

“Hi!” A voice interrupts him, and Zayn looks. Well, he thinks vaguely, he’s not hideous. Certainly not. He’s got lovely long hair and pants that show off long legs and strong thighs and a great ass and his shirt hangs off of broad shoulders, open at the chest so bits of ink show through, and that’s even before Zayn gets to the face, that strong jaw and big eyes. Definitely not hideous. “You’re Zayn, right?” he asks, slower.

Right. Zayn’s probably been quiet for a while. “Yeah,” he replies immediately, “Yeah, I—I’m Zayn. Harry?”

“Yep!” Harry grins, and he has dimples. Louis should have warned him about the dimples. If he had known about the dimples he would have…he doesn’t know, maybe prepared talking points or something. “So, should I…” he gestures at the chair across from Zayn.

“Yeah, sit!” Shit. He’s already messing this up. Of course he is. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Harry pushes his hair out of his face, and smiles again. It’s a really infectious smile, and Zayn doesn’t really know what to do with that. “So, this is a nice place.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. He’s started like three sentences that way, Harry must have noticed. It must be why he’s staring. “I mean, like, Louis sort of chose it? I didn’t, well, it’s a bit much for a first date, in my opinion.”

“You let Louis choose your dates?” Harry asks. Zayn shrugs.

“It’s easier, generally. Otherwise he’ll try to take over some other part of my life.” Harry laughs, and Zayn bites at his lip. He didn’t—well, it was supposed to be funny, but not laugh out loud funny.

“So you’re close?”

“He’s been my best friend since college,” Zayn agrees. He needs to add something, so, “You work with him, right?”

“Yeah.” Harry nods, then, “Okay, I need to get this out of the way. You’re really gorgeous, you know that?”

Zayn can feel himself blush, and looks down before it can be obvious. “Thanks. You’re pretty nice looking, too.”

“Thanks! But, that’s not, I mean,” Harry shakes his head, brushes his hair back again, “I’m better at this, usually. Your face is throwing me off.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No.” Harry leans forward, his eyes sparkling, “I’m enjoying being a bit thrown off.” He gives another one of those dimpling grins, a disarming combination of sweet and sexy. “I just want a few strikes before you write me off as irredeemably weird.”

Zayn takes a deep breath. “I think I can do that,” he agrees, and when Harry’s smile grows into something just bright and beaming it feels like it burns all the nerves away.


	93. Chapter 93

_**Prompt: panicky** _

He doesn’t even really notice it. It’s a normal sort of day, a normal sort of performance, and Harry’s standing on the edge of the stage, blowing kisses to the fans as Louis sings. He dances a little, which makes him stumble, windmill—then Zayn’s there, his hands on his hips, steadying him. Harry throws a grin over his shoulder, takes a quick bow, then dances away, to go bother Niall. Harry falls over multiple times an hour, sometimes; if he kept track of all the times he’d probably go crazy.

It doesn’t really register after, that Zayn’s being touchier. That’s not something that’s so unusual to be remarked upon either, even if Harry loves it, the casual touches Zayn does even on stage sometimes, hands on his back or in his hair or on his waist. Sure, they fall a little heavier today, a little less casual, but they haven’t really had a chance to get off properly for a week, he’s probably feeling that as much as Harry is.

They finish the show, then they’re herded into a van to take them back to the hotel. Zayn’s being quiet, in the way he sometimes gets when he’s working something out in his head, so Harry leaves him alone to chat with Liam and Niall as they’re moved through the crowd. Zayn goes in first, and he seems tired so Harry’s going to let him sleep in the back on his own, when there’s a hand on his wrist and he’s getting pulled into the back too.

Harry never objects to sitting with Zayn, so he goes easily, settling down next to him and smiling when Zayn wraps his arms around him, Zayn’s face buried in his neck. He doesn’t say anything, though, so Harry keeps up his conversation with Zayn wrapped around him. It’s how Harry’d like to carry on all conversations, so he’s quite all right with it.

But then Zayn stays holding on as they get out, his arm tight over Harry’s shoulder, even as they move through the crowd, and it’s not enough to get them weird looks so Harry doesn’t say anything but it’s more than Zayn usually does in public, and he’s tenser too, not playful like he gets after shows. Harry tries to get a look of his face, but it’s turned away, so all he gets is a view of his hair, which is a very nice view of Zayn—as all views are—but doesn’t really tell him much.

“You okay?” Harry murmurs, but Zayn just shakes his head, and holds him closer as they get to the hotel, get the keys to their room. “Zayn…”

Finally, Zayn looks up. His eyes are red, almost bloodshot, but not like he’s high, more like he’s been crying. “Can you just—stay here, for a second?” he asks, opening the door to his room.

“’course.” Harry follows him in, then onto the bed when that’s where Zayn goes, settling down between his legs. Zayn’s lips brush against his neck, then his hands are moving, down Harry’s arms, his chest, tracing all of his skin. It’s not sexual, it’s just—touching.

“You almost fell,” Zayn whispers, at last, against his skin. “I—it could have been bad, Haz. If you fell.”

Oh. Harry remembers it now, but still… “I didn’t.”

“But you could have.” Zayn’s hands are faster, like he needs to touch all of Harry, like he needs to make sure he’s there. “God, Haz…I didn’t…”

“Hey, I’m here.” Harry tries to pull away so he can turn around, but Zayn’s arms tighten on him. “Zayn. I’m fine.”

“I know, just—” Zayn sighs. “Can you stay here for a little while? So I remember?”

Harry smiles, and relaxes back into Zayn, into his arms. “As long as you need.”


	94. Chapter 94

_**Prompt: threatened** _

“Okay, so, be nice,” Liam warns, sternly. It’s a little bit unnecessary of a warning, because usually he’d be warning Louis, and Louis’s already met Zayn and they’re like best friends already, but he still thinks it needs saying unless Louis forgot and eggs Harry on. “Zayn is really cool, and I think he’d fit in really well with the band.”

Harry laughs, twirling his microphone. “Got a crush, Li?”

Liam scowls, and sticks his tongue out. “He’s cool, okay? And he’s a really good drummer.”

“We’ll be nice,” Niall assures him, grinning as he plays with the tuning on his guitar. Liam spares him a smile, but it’s really not him he’s worried about.

Louis snorts. “We’ll be fine, Liam. Zayn’s got thick skin, he’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” Liam sighs, and that’s when there’s a knock on the garage door. “Okay, that’s him,” he says, and gives the garage a final glare before he goes to open the door.

Zayn’s standing there, fiddling with a drum stick, and he’s chewing on his lip a bit until he sees Liam, when he smiles. Liam grins back. He really likes Zayn, is the thing, as opposed to the other drummers they’ve gone through. He likes superheroes and is cool and good and Liam thinks he’d be a good friend, too.

“Hi!” Liam sticks out his hand; Zayn rolls his eyes and pulls him into a quick, one arm hug. “Welcome, I guess.”

“Hey,” Zayn replies, and when Liam steps back he walks in. “Thanks for, like, letting me try out.”

“No problem!” Liam turns to the rest of the band, who are all staring a bit. “That’s Niall, he’s lead guitar—” Niall grins and waves, “and you met Louis, he does backup guitar and anything else,” Louis nods, “and that’s Harry, he’s our lead singer.” Harry’s still just staring, his jaw dropped a little bit. It’s maybe the first time Liam’s ever seen Harry not jump enthusiastically into meeting someone, but it’s better than being mean. “Everyone, this is Zayn.”

“Hi Zayn,” Louis drawls, “Welcome to the jungle.”

“So, how long have you been playing?” Niall asks, leaning forward. “Can you—”

“Why don’t we just try him out?” Liam suggests, and Zayn nods and slides onto the stool.

It’s good. It’s really good, and Zayn just seems to fit, playing around Niall and Louis’ guitars and Liam’s bass and Harry’s voice, laughing at the jokes Louis cracks between songs, grinning at Niall’s infectious laughter, actually sometimes listening to Liam when he tries to keep them on track. It’s probably the best rehearsal they’ve ever had, even if Harry’s a little off, and keeps looking back over his shoulder to see if Zayn’s there.

“So, lads?” Liam asks, when they start packing up because Louis has to go home to watch his sisters, “What do you think?”

Zayn’s smile dies, a little, twists into something far away and neutral. Maybe Liam should have waited for him to go, but it’s so good. They’re so good.

“Hey, he won me over when he didn’t tell on me at school,” Louis says.

“Only if he buys me a pint,” Niall jokes, and Zayn’s lips twitch minutely, even as Niall’s laughing and holding out his fist for a fist bump.

 “Harry?” Liam prompts. Liam’s not entirely sure he’s blinked all rehearsal, really.

“No,” Harry says, his voice slower than usual, lower. “No, Liam, I’m sorry.”

“But—”

“I’m already the pretty one in this band,” Harry goes on, and the worry in Liam’s throat relaxes when Harry gives an exaggerated pout that means he’s complaining just to complain, “That’s my thing. I can’t have something else. Sorry, but it would mess with our types.”

Liam spins to Zayn, to explain—but Zayn’s smirking, and he licks his lips. “Think I’m pretty?”

Harry actually blushes, and looks away, and Zayn’s smirk grows, his fingers running over his ear. Liam glances between them. He hadn’t thought—but it makes sense, because Zayn’s attractive enough even Liam knows he’s hot, and Harry’s Harry. Still. He really hopes this doesn’t mess up the band.


	95. Chapter 95

_**Prompt: overwhelmed. They see each other after 10 years** _

He’s still beautiful. It’s the first thing that hits Harry, when he sees him across the room. He’s still horribly, horribly beautiful, and where Harry’s filled out a bit, his hair is going a little, he’s just—Zayn. Maybe he’s a little bulkier, maybe he doesn’t have that slim delicacy of youth, but he’s still the kind of person people turn on the streets to look at. Still the same person Harry spent years watching out of the corner of his eyes, trying not to stare. 

Harry hadn’t expected to see him, really. Harry’s come to all sorts of reunions, and he keeps up with most of their class, but Zayn’s never come before, and he doesn’t have a Facebook. which he certainly did not learn when his college friends got him drunk and asked about first loves.  Not that Zayn was his first love. He was just—that unattainable crush, who glided through high school without it seeming to touch him, even when people teased or pushed. When Harry was trying to keep his head above water, trying to deal with homework and clubs and social things, Zayn was just—there. Calm. Beautiful. Far away.

But here he is, fifteen years later, still leaning against the wall of the cafeteria with a drink in one hand. He looks different, of course; softer, almost, Harry thinks, with his hair loose and his face relaxed like it wasn’t in high school, Harry only realizes now, in retrospect. He looks approachable, like if Harry came up to him he wouldn’t just sneer at him, or worse, not notice.

Of course he won’t, Harry reminds himself. It’s not high school anymore. The point of reunions is to catch up. He can go catch up with whoever he wants.

So he grabs a glass of wine, and makes his way over to Zayn’s patch of wall. It’s more empty than the rest of the gym, out of the ingrained instinct of years of high school where no one quite knew if it was safe to approach, but Zayn just looks up when Harry comes close, a small smile on his lips.

“Hi!” Harry says, because he’s never been particularly imaginative in his opening lines, “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m—”

“Harry, right?” Zayn finishes. Harry’s eyes widen. Zayn knew who he was. Zayn’s voice was still that same smooth, warm thing that had always twisted Harry’s stomach into knots. “Harry Styles.”

“Yeah!” Harry manages a wide smile. “And you’re Zayn Malik.”

“Guilty,” Zayn nods. “How’ve you been?”

“Not bad. You?”

“Okay.” Zayn’s still got that smile on, and if it was pretty far away it’s devastating up close. He’s devastating up close. “I’m teaching, in L.A., actually. You?”

“I’m in L.A. too!” It’s basically fate, he figures, “I’m in advertising.” Zayn nods, and Harry hesitates for a second, but introspection is not really in his nature, so, “I didn’t think you’d remember me,” he adds.

Zayn’s head tilts, his brows coming together. It’s more emotion than he showed in four years of high school. “Why wouldn’t I remember you?”

“Well, I—” Maybe Harry shouldn’t have opened this talk, but Zayn’s looking at him and it feels just as good as he imagined it might at sixteen, the intense focus of those hazel eyes. “I just didn’t really think you knew who I was.”

“Of course I did. You were Harry Styles. Everyone knew you.” Zayn snorts, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of Harry. “I was more surprised you knew who I was. I wasn’t exactly popular, was I?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to laugh. “Nah, you were cool.”

“I really wasn’t.” Zayn brushes a lock of hair out of his face, and Harry tracks the motion, and the bare left hand. “If you’d have told me Harry Styles was talking to me at our fifteenth reunion, I’d have laughed you out of the room.”

“Well, if you told me Zayn Malik was smiling at me at our fifteenth reunion, I’d probably have fainted,” Harry counters, and smiles, his best cheeky, flirty grin. “But here we are.”

Zayn’s grin is bright and huge, and definitely nothing Harry had seen back in high school or he really would have fainted, from the adorableness of it. “Here we are,” he agrees, and Harry doesn’t think he’s mistaking the purr in his voice. “Would you look at that.”


	96. Chapter 96

_**Prompt: Ashamed** _

“Hey. Zayn?” Harry hovers at the threshold of the bedroom, his hands twisting around each other. Zayn smiles just at the sight of it, at waking up to Harry in his flat, at him actually staying the night. At how the space next to him in bed is still warm, like he only just left. That Zayn didn’t dream how they’d slept that night after, Zayn’s chest to Harry’s back, their hands tangled over Harry’s chest. 

“Yeah?” He grins, stretches luxuriously, sore in the best sort of way. Harry’s eyes track the movement of his bare chest, and he grins at that too. At having this. “Why aren’t you still in bed?”

“See, that’s—so, I was going to make breakfast,” Harry mumbles. He’s shifting between his feet, and his hair’s messy, and Zayn wants to comb it out between his fingers, because he can. Because he’s allowed to. Because Harry’s hair feels so good between his fingers, and because he makes the best sounds when Zayn tugs. “Because—I didn’t want to wake you up, and you always said you never remembered to make yourself breakfast, so I thought you might want it. And you had eggs, so I was going to make those, and no bacon, I remember.”

“Sounds good.”

“Right? But I—so I was going to make tea too. And your water heater might be broken, because I’m not sure it whistles—”

“It doesn’t,” Zayn agrees, “It’s really old.”

“Oh, good.” Harry’s not smiling, Zayn notices for the first time. It makes something flip in his stomach. Zayn thinks he could smile for years, why doesn’t Harry? Does Harry—does he have second thoughts? He’d thought they were past this, that they’d finally communicated, decided to give this a real go—but what if Harry wasn’t so sure? “But, I was making the tea, and I was getting out the mugs, and then one of your cats was there and it really surprised me and I dropped the mug your sisters made you and it broke, I’m so sorry.” The whole last sentence comes out in a breathless rush, so it takes Zayn a second to parse it, and by the time he does Harry’s going on, “I’m really really sorry Zayn! I didn’t mean to, I swear, I was just—”

“Are you okay?” Zayn interrupts. Knowing Harry, he expects some blood.

Harry’s eyes widen. “Yeah, I’m fine, but—I don’t think it can be fixed. It’s in like a million pieces.”

“Did you clean it up?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Okay.” Harry’s still just staring at him, wringing his fingers. “Is something wrong?” he asks, slowly.

“I broke your mug!” It bursts out of Harry, loud and sudden, “It’s your favorite mug, and I broke it. I was just trying to do something nice, I swear, it’s—what are you doing?”

Zayn’s gotten out of bed, because he doesn’t think Harry’s coming to him. Instead, he sidles close, his hands resting on Harry’s hips so he can soothe him down. “It’s just a mug, babe.”

“But—you aren’t mad?”

Zayn brushes Harry’s hair out of his face, tipping his chin up so he has to look at Zayn. “I’m only mad I’m not still in bed. And,” he adds, more tentative, “That you aren’t there with me.”

Harry’s starting to smile, but he’s still tentative. “You sure? I’m—I was trying to start this well. I really was.”

Zayn grins now, his hand cupping around Harry’s neck to keep him close. “If I remember, we started it off really well.” Harry still isn’t smiling hugely, like he can, like Zayn—is very fond of. “I know any relationship with you is going to involve accidents, Haz. As long as you’re not hurt, it’s fine.”

“I am sorry,” Harry insists.

Zayn rolls his eyes. This is taking far too long. “I know. Want to show me how much?” He squeezes Harry’s ass, just to make sure he doesn’t miss the innuendo.

Harry squeaks, but really is starting to grin now, dimpling, his eyes brightening. “I think I can do that,” he agrees, and then Zayn’s stumbling back to the bed, a Harry attached to his lips.


	97. Chapter 97

_**Prompt: Insecure (Part[2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7567285/chapters/17215678))**_

 

“It looks great, Harry,” Zayn says from the bed. Harry just stares at himself in the mirror. He needs to look good tonight, this guy’s really hot and Harry likes him—well, he thinks he could like him, and why do none of his shirts seem to fit him right?

“I think it makes me look pudgy,” Harry counters, frowning at his reflection. He knows Zayn’s probably getting sick of this, because it’s the fourth outfit he’s tried on and Zayn’s never really been interested in clothes that much anyway—you don’t have to be, when you can wear plastic bags and make it look like you’re on a runway—but he’s still here, and Harry loves him for it.

“You look hot,” Zayn counters. Harry watches him in the mirror as he gets up from where he’s lounging on the bed to pace towards Harry, all sleek lines and gorgeousness even in sweatpants and a t-shirt of Harry’s. It’s horrible, sometimes, having someone who looks like him as your best friend, because Harry knows that standing next to him there’s no comparison. There are other things he’s better at—he’s good at charming people, at knowing what people want—but Zayn’s just…there are no words for him. It makes Harry feel even worse, as Zayn comes up next to him, to see how big and ungainly and clumsy he looks when Zayn’s so elegant and graceful but still manly.

“I don’t,” Harry mutters, looks down. He doesn’t like to see that comparison, to remind him that even if Zayn’s his best friend he’d never—they’re on different scales. Zayn should date people who are similarly gorgeous, and Harry’s not, and there’s no point in thinking differently. The guy tonight is hot too. But he’s not—not Zayn-level. Probably not Zayn level anything, not as nice or funny or clever, but still. He’s in Harry’s league, in a way Zayn just isn’t.

Zayn’s behind him, his hands on Harry’s hips, his fingers sliding underneath the shirt, right over the pudge. Harry resists the urge to wince away, to hide. Zayn’s seen him, Zayn knows.

“You’re gorgeous, Harry,” Zayn murmurs, his voice low and rough. “You’re all legs, you know?” his hands run down Harry’s jeans. “Thick thighs. And your chest…it’s strong, you know? Broad, solid. And you never button up your shirts, it’s always just there.” His eyes stay steady on Harry’s in the mirror, as Harry’s jaw drops, as he tries to center himself while Zayn’s hands run over him. They’re touchy, always have been, but never like this. Never like there’s intent. “And your back’s got these muscles, they ripple, it’s amazing to watch.” He can’t touch that, so he just rests his hands on Harry’s shoulder.

“And your face…” he switches to a finger, tracing over Harry’s jaw, his cheek. “You’re lovely. All of you. Those full lips, your eyes.” He doesn’t actually touch Harry’s lips, but he looks like he might. Looks like he’s thinking about it, with his hazel eyes hot, or maybe Harry’s just imagining that. He probably is. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Haz. Don’t worry.”

Harry swallows. He doesn’t think he remembers how to talk, how to function, how to do anything but stare at the picture they make, to stare at Zayn looking at him like he’s gorgeous, like they do match. “I…” he trails off. His voice is rough, hoarse from the effort of not just melting into Zayn’s arms. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t worry, you’ll date’ll be impressed,” Zayn finishes, sharply. He makes to step back, but Harry grabs his arms, keeps him there. Just for a little longer, he thinks. He’ll keep him there a little longer, so he can believe he’s as beautiful as Zayn says. So he can believe he’s beautiful enough to match the boy holding him here.


	98. Chapter 98

_**Prompt: humiliated** _

“Zayn, open the door.” Zayn shakes his head, even if he knows Harry can’t see it. It’s—he can’t. He just wants to stay here, to hide. “C’mon, Zayn, please?”

“You can go away, Haz,” Zayn says back, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I’m not coming out for weeks.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was.” If it hadn’t been on stage—if it hadn’t been caught on thousands of iphones—if it wasn’t going to spawn millions of rumors—but it was, and it had been, and it was, and Zayn was thinking not moving from this bathroom wasn’t a bad idea. “You probably need to go do damage control.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Harry retorts. There are noises on the other side of the door, like Harry’s sitting down. “It wasn’t the worst thing that we’ve done on stage. Remember when Liam tripped?”

“This was worse.”

“No one noticed, Zayn.”

“Everyone noticed.”

“They noticed for a second. Why do you think Louis chose then to take off Liam’s shirt? We weren’t going to leave you like that.” Harry pauses, then, “Can I come in Zayn? Please?”

Zayn’s never really been able to say no to Harry. He reaches up, unlocks the door, and shoves it open.

Instead of pulling Zayn out, Harry just comes in and closes the door again. He sits down next to Harry, so their thighs are touching and Zayn can smell the sweat and hairspray scent of Harry post-stage, and twists to pull Zayn into a hug. It feels better than it should, but Zayn can bury his face in Harry’s shoulder and pretend the world didn’t happen to him.

“Don’t we have to go?” Zayn asks. Harry tugs him in tighter, and he thinks he feels a brush of lips against his forehead.

“We can stay here as long as you need.”

 “Think if we stay here long enough Liam will go on another twitter rant?” Zayn mutters, into Harry’s skin.

“I’ll say something stupid if he doesn’t,” Harry promises, and it’s something, at least. To hide here with Harry, and not face anything at all.


	99. Chapter 99

_**Prompt: aroused** _

Harry’s a fucking tease, is the thing. He loves attention, that’s just a part of him, that’s fine, Zayn’s happy to be attentive, and he’s fine with Harry needing attention from other people too, because he always circles back to Zayn in the end, but there’s attention, and then there’s _attention_. Then there’s how he’s been all night, in his tight as fuck jeans and mostly open shirt, fiddling with the scarf that lies over his hard chest, walking around everywhere leading with his hips, playing with his hair.

Now, someone had the bad fucking sense to give him a popsicle, and Zayn is ready to kill that person. They’re in public. Very in public, waiting for an interview, and Harry knows it, and he’s still just—his lips are wrapped around the popsicle, stained even redder than usual, and his cheeks hollow out around the ice, and Zayn is about ready to explode. He needs to look away, he knows, to look away and go play with—with anyone else—but Harry’s got dancing eyes, and he looks so good and Zayn’s never really been able to look away from Zayn.

Harry pulls the popsicle out with a ‘pop’, licks his lips, and Zayn actually cannot stand this anymore. “Bathroom!” he announces suddenly, and darts out of the room.

He does actually make it to the bathroom, because he needs somewhere to be alone and just gather himself up, to splash cold water on his face to cool himself off, to think of some really awful and gross things and not Harry being all—Harry.

He can’t be away for long, though, he knows. Someone will go looking for him. And maybe Harry will have tired of this game. He doubts it, because Harry loves to get Zayn worked up, to see how far he can push him, but he can hope. So he takes one last deep breath, gives himself a stern look in the mirror—fixes his hair briefly—then leaves the bathroom.

He heads back to the greenroom, then pauses for a second outside the door, leans back against the wall. He wishes he could go grab a cigarette somewhere, but it’s too much of a hassle at this point.

Suddenly, there’s a body in front of him, and Zayn doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who it is.

 “Hey,” Harry says, his voice low and rough and pleased. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“You know perfectly well,” Zayn retorts, opening his eyes. Harry’s face fills his vision, full lips and big eyes and that knowing smirk on.

“What do you mean?” Harry drawls. He saunters closer, so Zayn really doesn’t have a choice but to push Harry’s hair out of his face and behind his ears. Harry turns his head so his cheek presses into Zayn’s palm, and it’s disarmingly sweet amidst the seduction.

“Mean you’re killing me, babe,” Zayn murmurs, and a satisfied smile spreads over Harry’s face, as he leans in further, so he can whisper in Zayn’s ear,

“Not as much as you’ll be killing me, later,” he whispers, and it’s an awful line and it doesn’t even make any sense and it’s horrible, because Zayn still has to stifle a groan.


	100. Chapter 100

 The problem with trying to act like a mature, sensible adult who is very capable of living their own life and not getting falling down drunk at a party, Nick’s found, is that sometimes you end with a boybander mostly draped over you, talking about how he thinks the punch tasted more like pineapples at the last party he went.

“Do you have a scale?” Nick asks, leaning back into the couch. It’s a good party, even if he’s not entirely sure what it’s for. He should find out so he can talk about it tomorrow. But there are plenty of people here, plenty of celebrities even, including all five members of One Direction. Because all those boys Harry likes to call his like to think they’re cool and hipster and not children, though, it’s also got a nice laid back vibe. Well, except for the corner where Niall’s organized a beer pong tournament, but Finchy’s over there cheering enthusiastically as Niall sinks a ball, so Nick thinks he probably doesn’t have a right to talk. “Pineapple to orange? Where does lemon fall on this scale?”

“On your mom,” Harry retorts, pouting a little. Then his eyes widen. “No, don’t tell her I said that! I love your mom.”

“I’m tattling,” Nick teases back. With the hand Harry’s not lying on, he takes a drink. “See if she asks about you every time I call after this.”

“Nooo,” Harry whines, then bites at Nick’s shoulder, open mouthed.

Nick laughs, more fond than he probably should be, but he’s resigned himself. Sometimes you think your life is cool, and then a pop star comes in and then you’re at a party where Louis Tomlinson is chatting with Fiona in a corner. “You really are a cat, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Harry agrees cheerfully, and flops onto his back, so his head’s in Nick’s lap. “So you should pet me.”

“Spoiled,” Nick points out, but he does as he’s told. People tend to, he’s found, around Harry. He comes off as this innocent flower child, but he’s got everyone wrapped around his little finger and he knows it, the brat.

“Just don’t stop petting.” Harry shifts, until he’s more properly splayed out, his legs parted almost invitingly, his shirt riding up a little over his stomach. It’s a display, that much is obvious.

Nick raises his eyebrows. “What’re you up to?”

Harry grins, dimpling unapologetically, and glances over; Nick follows his gaze. Zayn’s standing by the punch. He looks as effortlessly gorgeous as he always does, in the sort of way Nick’s stopped envying in some of his friends because it’s not their fault they look like that. He’s also at least a bit drunk, Nick thinks, given how he puts his hand down to lean on the table, misses so he stumbles a bit, then immediately rights himself and glances around to make sure no one saw, his lips curved into one of his smirks.

“Yes, I see him,” Nick agrees patiently. Getting things out of Harry is like getting him to tell a story—it takes forever, and is often not worth it in the end.

“Isn’t he pretty?” Harry asks, closing his eyes a little as Nick’s fingers dig into his hair.

“He’s hot, yeah.” Nick nods.

“His eyelashes go on for miles,” Harry breathes dreamily. When Nick stops petting to scratch an itch, Harry wrinkles his nose and shifts pettishly until Nick starts again. “I want to count them, Nick. Do you think I could?”

It’s not an unfair thing to want to do. Nick’s had fleeting thoughts about it himself, whenever he’s in the same room as Zayn. It’s in the smolder, it’s a little debilitating. “I think he’d probably let you,” Nick tells Harry though, because he’s heard enough stories from Harry to know how ridiculous their band is and that if Harry expressed an interest in counting Zayn’s eyelashes, not only would Zayn probably sit down and let him, but the other three would probably come over to try to help.

“I’m working on it.” Harry smirks. Nick glances over at the table, but Zayn does not appear to have moved, unless to shift his face into an even more attractive sort of pout.

“How?”

Harry shifts again, so his shirt is riding up even more. Given that his shirt was already most of the way unbuttoned, it means he’s effectively shirtless. He’s got a very nice chest, Nick’s always thought. Or he would, if he didn’t have the world’s stupidest tattoos.

“What, you’re flashing skin?” Nick asks. “Hasn’t he already seen you naked a thousand times?”

“Yeah.” Harry sighs, probably imagining Zayn naked. Then he pulls himself back. “But, see, I know my Zayn—”

“Your Zayn?”

Harry’s teeth flash. “He will be. Anyway. I know him. And I’ve been seducing him.”

“By making yourself available?” This feels like a very non-foolproof plan. They’re Nick’s favorite kind. He likes to laugh at Harry when they fail, then ply him with tea and bad reality TV.

“Among other things.” Harry smirks again. “Yesterday at rehearsal, we had a second, because we were working on Fireproof and Liam was talking with Savan about his part and Niall had to use the loo and Louis was out calling El and James—our sound engineer, you remember him? He looks a bit like a giraffe, except without the spots, and—”

“Styles, you’re beginning to bore me,” Nick drawls, and Harry snorts.

“You love me.”

“Not as much as you love Zayn, apparently.”

He’s expecting a flippant retort, as flippant as Nick’s comment, but instead there’s silence. And—oh.

“Really?” Nick feels like he should have been informed about this. “Really really?”

“I dunno.” Harry shakes his head, and sits up, pulling in on himself a little, so he looks like he’s lacking all those many years Nick has on him. “I’ve been thinking, maybe…”

It’s…not as surprising as it might be, honestly. Nick doesn’t really keep up with Harry’s press or anything unless he needs to for the show or Harry feels the need to show him something (or the others feel the need to tease him), but, well, yeah. Harry talks about Zayn a lot, he supposes, possibly disproportionately much, always going on about his cool new tattoo or the book he was reading or how they cuddled or how he slapped his ass. Maybe Nick should stop trying to play Candy Crush while he talks to Harry, if he missed this.

“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” Harry asks, quietly. His gaze darts over, and Nick follows it again, to where Zayn’s now leaning against a wall, staring into space. Or maybe he’s thinking deep thoughts. Or he could be very high. Nick can’t tell the difference.

“Nah. You lot are ridiculously homoerotic anyway, what’s a bit more?” When Harry’s still not smiling again, Nick nudges him with his shoulder. “So what’s the plan, then?”

It gets Harry to smile again, loose and dimpling, as he pushes his hair out of his face. “See, I fainllyfigured it out. I was playing with Prada, Zayn’s kitten, she’s so cute, she actually likes me too, not like the other one, but I was playing with her and I figured it out. You have to make cats come to you by pretending you don’t want them there but also being available to them.” Harry opens his arms wide, nearly oversetting Nick’s drink. “So this is me being too cool for him. While also being available.”

It’s…only sort of the worst plan Nick’s ever head. “You do know he’s not actually a cat though, right?” Nick asks. He’s not entirely sure Harry does. Sometimes he gets caught up in his Grand Plans.

Harry sighs gustily. “Yes, Nicholas, thank you, I am aware. But I’ve tried everything else, and he doesn’t get it. I was sitting on his lap for an entire evening and he never even tried to take advantage of it.” Harry’s lower lips juts out, even if his eyes are laughing. “He asked if I was comfortable and let me steal his drink and fell asleep on my shoulder. It was brilliant.”

Nick can’t help laughing. “You are in deep.”

“I know! So, Plan Cat is my last resort. Next one is making out with him onstage.” Harry grins, his eyes closing for a second. “Mmm, making out with him onstage. That sounds hot.”

Nick refuses to think about it, because if he does he suspects he will indeed find it hot. “You’re such an exhibitionist.”

“Only for you, baby.” Harry flutters his eyelashes ridiculously. “Well, no. I’ve been trying to touch Zayn’s dick as much as I can without it being obvious. Just to get him thinking about it.” Nick chokes. Harry grins. “It’s like petting a cat whenever it walks by!” he protests, laughing as Nick shoves him away. “Got to make them know it’s possible!”

“You are filthy and disgusting and I’m not sure I’ve ever been prouder of you,” Nick shoots back, and Harry laughs again.

“Why’re you filthy?”

Harry jumps, but he stills himself admirably quickly as he glances up. “Zayn!” he gasps. Nick tries not to laugh, though not that hard. “I—”

“Doesn’t wash his hair nearly enough,” Nick puts in, because he’s the best friend ever. He gives Harry a pointed look to that effect. Harry gives one back he likes to think means he knows that and he is eternally grateful and will finally return Nick’s fucking teapot like he’s been asking for a month.

“Right?” Zayn laughs, and ruffles Harry’s hair. Nick really must not have been paying attention to miss this whole Zayn thing, because Harry’s face goes slack and a little blissed out when Zayn touches him. “The worst, isn’t he?”

“Awful,” Nick agrees.

“So,” Harry breaks in, pretty clearly trying not to sound like he’s as close to coming from just Zayn’s hand in his hair as Nick suspects he might be, “What’re you doing here, Zayn?”

Zayn shrugs. “Looked like you all were having fun here, everyone else is occupied.”

Harry grins, and gives Nick another look that Nick knows very well is ‘told you so’. Nick raises his eyebrow back.

“We are having fun,” Harry agrees. “You should have fun with us.” He grabs at Zayn’s wrist to yank him down.

Zayn falls, pretty gracelessly really, but the instant he hits the couch he manages to somehow arrange himself so he’s lounging with an arm draped over Harry’s shoulder, like he always meant to end up like that. Nick is starting to consider Harry’s feline estimation is correct.

He’s even more on that page when Zayn’s eyebrows raise and his nose wrinkles a bit. “Am I supposed to be having fun no?.”

“You’re always supposed to be having fun with me,” Harry informs him. “I’m always fun. Right Nick?”

“The funnest,” Nick drawls, because he doesn’t want to risk the slow death Harry’s threatening him with if he disagrees. Because he is also the best best mate anyone could ask for and he is more of a romantic than he likes to admit, he also gets to his feet. “But I’m needed elsewhere, it seems. I’ll see you later.”

Harry’s smile is brilliant. “Later, Nick!” Zayn nods.

Nick’s about to walk away when it occurs to him. “Hey, Zayn. Question for my listeners?”

“Yeah, man?”

“Cats or dogs?”

Zayn blinks once, a long slow thing out of eyes that do look more gold than hazel in the party lights. “Both, yeah? Any animal’s good.”

Harry’s inching closer to Zayn, like maybe Zayn won’t notice if Harry ends up on Zayn’s lap if it happens gradually. Zayn might not be noticing, but he looks quite comfortable tucked up next to Harry.

“Interesting,” Nick observes, and leaves Harry to it. He really hopes he won’t have to get Harry a kitten if this crashes and burns.

His phone buzzes two days later, just before he’s about to go on. It’s a selfie, with Harry in bed, and a Zayn who really doesn’t look awake resting on his shoulder. They’re both shirtless at least, but Nick can guess from Harry’s grin that they’re wearing a lot less than that.

_IT WORKED!!!!!_ is all the texts says, but his phone buzzes again quickly. _He came to me eventually. And for me. And on me ;)_

Nick swears. It’s far too early for innuendo. _You better name your first cat after me_ , he texts back, and in revenge does an entire section on pop stars who look like animals, focusing especially on certain boy banders and giraffes.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked these? Want to discuss or see more as they're posted? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr](http://zaynandhisboys.tumblr.com/) or go to the full archive at [ my drabble blog](http://stormdirection.tumblr.com/)!


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